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OUTPOST. 


BY 


JANE    G.    AUSTIN, 

AUTHOR  OF  "  DORA  DARLING,  OR  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  REGIMENT,"   &c 


BOSTON: 
LEE   AND    SHEPARD,    PUBLISHERS. 

NEW  YORK:     CHARLES   T.   DILLINGIIAM. 

l8S4. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1866,  by 

J.   E.   TILTON  &  CO., 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusctta 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 
SUNSHINE .  .  7 

CHAPTER  II. 
THE  LITTLE  WIFE ,  .  ,  .  .  18 

CHAPTER  III. 
CHEURYTOE 22 

CHAPTER  IV. 
THE  CHILDREN  OF  MERRIGOLAND  .  .......  25 

CHAPTER  V. 
THE  RUNAWAY ...35 

CHAPTER  VI. 
MOTHER  WINCH 42 

CHAPTER  VII. 
TEDDY'S  LITTLE  SISTER 62 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
THE  FAYVER •  .  .  .  6& 

CHAPTER  IX. 
THE  NIGHT-WATCH 67 

CHAPTER  X. 
THE  EMPTY  NEST  . ,  .78 

CHAPTER  XI. 
A  TRACE  AND  A  SEARCH  87 


CONTENTS. 
CHAPTER    XII. 


TKDDY'S  TEMITATION 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
THE  CACIIUCA  .........  ....  103 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
GIOVANNI  AND  PANTALON  ..........  110 

CHAPTER  XV. 
THK  PINK-SILK  DRESS  ...........  122 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
BEGINNING  A  NEW  LIFE  ..........  132 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
WHOLESALE  MURDER  ...........  144 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
DORA  DARLING  .  .........  150 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
A  CHAMBER  OF  MEMORIES  ......  ....  160 

CHAPTER  XX. 
A  LETTER  AND  AN  OFFER  ..........  167 

CHAPTER  XXI. 
GIOVANNI'S  ROOM  ........  ....  176 

CHAPTER  XXII. 
THE  CONFESSION  .....  ..»,»•  •  .  •  186 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 
TEDDY  LOSES  AND  FINDS  HIS  HOME  .  ...  .....  196 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 
MR.  BURROUGHS'^  BUSINESS  .  .  .  .  .  «  •  .  .204 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
MAN  VERSUS  DOG  .....•-,,........»,«  •'•'•  "  •  *  .216 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 
Mas.  GINXISS  HAS  A  VISITOR  .  .  ».  •  V;  *  »  .  .224 


CONTENTS.  V 

CHAPTER    XXVII.  PAOK 

Tl-DDY  FINDS  A  NEW  PATRON £10 

CHAPTER    XXVIII. 
\VI.LCOME  HOME 240 

CHAPTER    XXIX. 
LIFE  AT  OUTPOST 259 

CHAPTER    XXX. 

KlT'JY   IN  THE   WOODS 268 

CHAPTER    XXXI 

THE  FOX  UNDER  THE  ROBE 281 

CHAPTER    XXXII. 

THE  PAINTER  AND  UNCLE  'SIAH'S  HARNAH 288 

CHAPTER    XXXIII. 
A  GLEAM  OF  DAWN 310 

CHAPTER    XXXIV. 
TMK  FIRST  CHANCE 322 

CHAPTER    XXXV. 
THE  SECOND  CHANCE 335 

CHAPTER    XXXVI. 
TltKASURE-TROVE 347 

CHAPTER    XXXVII. 
TEDDY'S  PRIVILEGE 362 

CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

WHAT  DORA  SAID 376 

CHAPTER    XXXIX. 
A.  SURPRISE  FOR  MRS.  GINNISS 388 

CHAPTER    XL. 
THE  WEDDING-DAY 400 

CHAPTER    XLI. 
KARL  TO  DORA 408 


OUTPOST. 


CHAPTER  I. 

SUNSHINE. 

"  THE  last  day  of  October  !  "  said  the  Sun  to  himself,  — 
"  the  last  day  of  my  favorite  month,  and  the  birthday  of 
my  little  namesake  !  See  if  I  don't  make  the  most  of  it !  " 

So  the  Sun  called  to  all  the  winds  and  all  the  breezes,  who, 
poor  things  !  had  but  just  gone  to  bed  after  a  terrible  night's 
work,  ordering  them  to  get  up  directly,  and  sweep  the  sky 
as  clear  as  a  bell ;  and  bid  all  the  clo-uds,  whether  big 
white  mountains,  little  pinky  islands,  sweeping  mares'-tails, 
or  freckled  mackerel-back,  to  put  themselves  out  of  the 
way,  and  keep  out  of  it  until  November ;  when,  as  the  Sun 
remarked  with  a  sigh,  they  would  have  it  all  their  own  way. 

"  And  as  soon  as  that  job  *s  done,"  continued  he,  "you 
may  go  to  bed  again  in  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon ;  for 
you  will  only  disturb  me  if  you  are  about." 

7 


8  SUNSHINE. 

So  the  winds,  grumbling  and  sighing  a  little,  went  to  their 
work  ;  and  the  Sun,  after  a  good  dip  in  the  Atlantic  Ocean, 
began  to  roll  up  the  eastern  sky,  flecking  the  waves  with 
diamond  spray,  touching  up  the  gay-colored  leaves  still 
clinging  to  the  forest-trees,  blazing  on  the  town  and  city 
clocks  to  let  every  one  know  how  late  it  was,  and  finally 
thrusting  his  saucy  glances  into  all  the  windows  to  see  how 
many  persons  had  heeded  him. 

"  Come,  come,  you  city-folks  !  "  cried  the  Sun.  "  Your 
neighbors  in  the  country  were  up  before  I  was,  and  have 
eaten  their  breakfasts,  and  half  cleared  it  away  by  this 
time  ;  and  here  are  you  just  beginning  to  dress  yourselves  ! 
Hurry  up,  I  say !  hurry  up  !  It  is  the  last  day  of  Octo 
ber,  don't  you  know  ?  and  to-morrow  will  be  November." 

But,  at  the  corner  house  of  a  handsome  square,  the  Sun 
found  himself  better  satisfied  ;  for  through  the  windows  of 
the  dining-room  he  saw  a  lady  and  gentleman  seated  at  the 
table,  having  apparently  almost  finished  their  breakfast. 

"  That  is  better,"  remarked  the  Sun  :  and,  thrusting  one 
of  his  slender  golden  fingers  through  the  window,  he  touched 
the  stag's  head  upon  the  cover  of  the  silver  coffee-pot ; 
glanced  off,  and  sparkled  in  the  cut  glass  of  the  goblets  and 
egg-glasses  ;  flickered  across  the  white  and  gilt  china  ;  pierced 


SUNSHINE. 

the  fiery  heart  or  the  diamond  upon  the  first  finger  of  the 
lady's  le^ft  hand,  and  then,  creeping  swiftly  up  her  white 
throat,  played  joyously  in  her  golden  curls,  and  even  darted 
into  her  soft  blue  eyes,  making  them  sparkle  as  brilliantly 
as  the  diamond. 

"  The  sun  shines  directly  in  your  face,  Fanny,"  said  Mr. 
Legrange,  admiring  the  color  in  his  wife's  hair.  "  Shall  I 
lower  the  shade  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  thank  you.  I  never  want  the  sunshine  shut 
out,"  replied  she,  moving  her  chair  a  little. 

"  Not  to-day  of  all  days  in  the  year,  I  suppose  ;  not  on 
the  birthday  of  our  little  Sunshine.  And  where  is  she  ?  " 
asked  Mr.  Legrange,  half  turning  his  chair  from  the  table 
to  the  fire,  and  unfolding  the  damp  newspaper  beside  his 
plate. 

"  I  told  Susan  to  send  her  down  as  soon  as  she  had  done 
her  breakfast.  Hark !  I  hear  her."  And  the  Sun,  draw 
ing  his  finger  across  the  mother's  lips,  helped  them  to  so 
bright  a  smile,  that  her  husband  said,  — 

"  I  am  afraid  we  have  more  than  our  share  of  sunshine, 
or  at  least  that  I  have,  little  wife." 

The  bright  smile  grew  so  bright  as  the  lady  bent  a  little 
toward  her  husband,  that  the  Sun  whispered,  — 


10  SUNSHINE. 

"  There's  no  need  of  sun  here,  I  plainly  see  "  but,  for  all 
that,  crept  farther  into  the  room  ;  while  the  door  opened,  and 
5n  skipped  a  little  girl,  who  might  have  been  taken  for  the 
beautiful  lady  at  the  head  of  the  table  suddenly  diminished 
to  childish  proportions,  and  dressed  in  childish  costume,  but 
with  all  her  beauty  intensified  by  the  condensation  :  for  the 
blue  eyes  were  as  large  and  clear,  and  even  deeper  in  their 
tint ;  the  clustering  hair  was  of  a  brighter  gold  ;  and  the  fair 
skin  pearlier  in  its  whiteness,  and  richer  in  its  rosiness  ; 
while  the  gay  exuberance  of  life,  glowing  and  sparkling 
from  every  curve  and  dimple  of  the  child's  face  and  figure, 
was,  even  in  the  happy  mother's  face,  somewhat  dimmed 
by  the  shadows  that  still  must  fall  upon  every  life  past  its 
morning,  be  it  never  so  happy,  or  never  so  prosperous. 

"  Morning,  mamma  and  papa.  It's  my  birthday  ;  and 
I'm  six  years  old,  —  six,  six  years  old  !  One,  two,  three, 
four,  five,  six  years  old  !  Susan  told  them  all  to  me,  and 
Susan  said  she  guessed  papa  didn't  forgotten  it.  She  didn't 
forgotten  it ;  and  see  !  " 

The  child  held  up  a  gay  horn  of  sugar-plums  fluttering 
with  ribbons,  and  then,  hugging  it  to  her  breast  with  one 
hand,  plunged  the  other  in,  and  offered  a  little  fistful  of 
the  comfits,  first  to  her  father,  and  then  to  her  mother.  Both 


SUNSHINE.  1 1 

smilingly  declined  the  treat,  explaining  that  they  had  but 
just  done  breakfast :  and  the  young  lady,  dropping  some 
back  into  the  horn,  thrust  the  rest  into  her  own  mouth,  say 
ing,  "  So  has  I ;  but  I  like  candy  all  the  day." 

« 

u  Come  here,  you  little  Sunshine,"  said  Mr.  Legrange, 
drawing  her  toward  him.  "  So  Susan  thought  I  hadn't 
forgotten  your  birthday,  eh?  Well,  do  you  know  what 
they  always  do  to  people  on  their  birthdays  ?  " 

"  Give  'em  presents,"  replied  the  child  promptly,  as  she 
desperately  swallowed  the  mouthful  of  candy. 

"  Ho,  ho  !  that's  it,  is  it?  No  ;  but,  besides  that,  they  al 
ways  pull  their  ears  as  many  times  as  they  are  years  old. 
Now,  then,  don't  you  wish  I  had  forgotten  it?  " 

Sunshine's  eyes  grew  a  little  larger,  and  travelled  swiftly 
toward  her  mother's  face,  coming  back  to  her  father's  with 
a  smile. 

"I  don't  believe  you'd  hurt  me  much,  papa,"  said  she, 
nestling  close  to  his  side. 

The  father  folded  her  tightly  in  his  arms,  lifting  her  to  a 
seat  upon  his  knee. 

"  I  don't  believe  I  would,  little  Sunshine.  Well,  then, 
sometimes,  instead  of  pinches,  they  give  little  girls  as  mauy 
kisses  as  they  are  years  old.  How  will  that  do?" 


12  SUNSHINE. 

The  rosy  mouth,  gathering  for  a  kiss,  answered  without' 
words  ;  but  Mr.  Legrange,  taking  the  dimpled  face  between 
his  hands,  said,  — 

"  No,  no  !  we  must  go  on  deliberately.    One  for  the  fore- 

• 

head,  two  for  the  eyes,  —  that  makes  three  ;  one  for  each 
cheek  makes  five  ;  and  now  the  last  and  best  for  the  lips 
makes  six.  Next  year,  there  will  be  another  for  the  chin, 
and,  after  that,  one  in  each  ear :  won't  that  be  nice  ?  " 

"And  mamma?  Hasn't  Sunshine  any  kisses  for  her 
this  morning?"  asked  Mrs.  Legrauge. 

The  child  slid  from  her  father's  knee  to  the  floor,  and, 
with  her  arms  round  her  mother's  neck,  whispered,  — 

"  I'll  give  mamma  all  these  kisses  papa  just  gave  ine, 
and  some  more  too." 

And  for  a  minute  or  two  it  would  have  been  hard  to  say 
to  which  bead  the  showery  golden  curls  belonged,  or  which 
pair  of  lips  was  the  kisser's,  and  which  the  kissed  ;  while  the 
Sun  fairly  danced  with  delight  as  he  wrapped  the  two  in  a 
beautiful  golden  mantle  woven  of  his  choicest  beams. 

Mr.  Legrange  looked  on,  laughing,  for  a  moment,  and 
then  said,  — 

"  So  Susan  told  you  people  get  presents  on  their  birth 
days,  did  she,  Toinette?" 


SUNSHINE,  13 

"  Yes,  papa ; "  and  the  child,  half  turning  from  her 
mother,  but  still  clinging  round  her  neck,  looked  at  her 
father  roguishly. 

u  And  I  guess  you  knew  it  before,  and  didn't  forgotte  . 
about  it,  did  you,  papa?"  asked  she. 

"  Well,  yes,  I  believe  I  have  heard  something  of  the  kind," 
said  Mr.  Legrauge,  gravely  considering ;  "  but,  dear  me  ! 
did  you  expect  me  to  make  you  a  present?  " 

'Toinette's  face  grew  rather  blank  ;  and  a  sudden  impulse 
turned  down  the  corners  of  her  mouth  with  a  little  tremble 
across  the  lips.  But  the  instinct  of  native  refinement  and 
delicacy  overcame  the  disappointment ;  and,  coming  to  her 
father's  side,  the  child  put  her  hand  in  his  with  a  brave 
little  smile,  saying,  — 

"  It's  no  matter,  papa  dear.  I've  got  ever  so  many 
pretty  things  up  in  the  nursery  ;  and  Susan  gave  me  the 
candy." 

Mr.  Legrauge  looked  at  his  wife. 

"  Your  own  child,  Fanny.  O  Sunshine,  Sunshine  !  what 
are  you  coming  to  by  and  by  ?  But  bless  me  !  what  is  this 
in  the  pocket  of  my  dressing-gown?  Let  me  take  it  out, 
lest  it  should  hurt  you  when  I  set  you  in  my  lap  again. 
Funny-looking  little  box,  isn't  it?1' 


14  SUNSHINE. 

As  he  spoke,  Mr.  Legrange  laid  upon  the  table  a  long, 
flat  box  of  red  morocco,  with  some  gilt  letters  upon  the  top. 

"Yes,  papa.  What's  in  the  box?"  asked  'Toinette,  still 
with  a  little  effort. 

"  What  do  you  think,  Sunshine?" 

"  I  guess  it's  some  cigars,  papa." 

"  It  would  make  a  good  cigar-case,  to  be  sure ;  but 
you  know  I  have  one  already,  and  mamma  says  I  ought  not 
to  have  any.  Let  us  peep  in,  and  see  what  else  the  box 
would  be  good  for  besides  cigars." 

He  unfastened  the  little  hooks  holding  down  the  cover  as 
he  spoke,  and  placed  the  casket  in  'Toinette's  hands.  She 
raised  the  lid,  and  uttered  a  low  cry ;  while  her  face  flushed 
scarlet  with  surprise  and  pleasure. 

Upon  the  white  satin  lining  lay  two  bracelets  of  coral 
cameos,  linked  with  gold,  and  fastened  by  a  broad  golden 
clasp. 

"  Are  they  pretty?"  asked  Mr.  Legrange,  smiling  at  the 
eager  little  face  upraised  to  his. 

"  Oh  !  they  are  lovely  pretty.     O  papa  !  oh  !  is  they  ?  "  — 

"  Yes,  they  are  yours,  Sunshine.  Mamma  said  you  had 
been  begging  for  some  bracelets  like  Minnie  Wall's  ;  and  so, 
as  I  had  heard  that  people  sometimes  liked  presents  on 


SUNSHINE.  IE 

their  birthdays,  arid  as  I  had  not  forgotten  when  Sunshine's 
cunio,  I  thought  I  would  bring  her  a  pair." 

The  excess  of  'Toinette's  rapture  would  not  allow  of 
speech  ;  but  Mrs.  Legrange,  peeping  over  her  shoulder, 
exclaimed, — 

"  Why,  Paul !  those  are  not  what  I  asked  you  to  get.  I 
told  you  common  coral  beads,  strung  on  elastic,  and  fast 
ened  with  a  little  snap." 

"  But  these  were  so  much  prettier,  my  dear,  and  will  be 
of  some  value  when  she  grows  up,  as  the  others  would  not. 
At  any  rate,  they  are  marked  :  so  we  must  keep  them  now. 
See ! " 

Mr.  Legrange  touched  a  tiny  spring ;  and  the  upper  part 
of  the  clasp,  opening  upon  a  hinge,  showed  a  plate  beneath, 
engraved  with  the  name,  "  Antoinette  Legrange." 

"  Yes  :  they  are  certainly  very  handsome  ;  and  'Toinette 
must  be  as  careful  of  them  as  possible.  They  will  be  just 
right  to  loop  up  her  sleeves  while  she  is  so  little,  and,  when 
she  is  older,  to  wear  as  bracelets,"  said  Mrs.  Legrango 
admiringly. 

u  I  may  wear  them  this  afternoon  at  my  party,  mayn't 
I,  mamma?"  asked  'Toinette,  trying  to  clasp  one  upon  her 
little  arm. 


16  SUNSHINE. 

"  Oh,  we  are  to  have  a  party,  are  we ! "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Legrange,  raising  his  eyebrows  in  dismay. 

"  Just  half  a  dozen  children  to  play  with  'Toinette,  and 
to  go  home  after  a  nursery-tea,"  explained  his  wife. 

"  Oh,  well !  I  shall  be  a  little  late  to  dinner,  very  likely  : 
so  it  will  all  be  over  when  I  arrive.  Shall  I  bring  Torn 
Burroughs  home  with  me  to  dine  ?  " 

"  I  want  Cousin  Tommy  to  come  to  my  party,  papa. 
Tell  him  to  come,  please,  and  Sunshine's  love." 

"  Your  party,  chick?  Why  !  he  would  be  Gulliver  among 
the  Liliputians.  He  would  tread  on  a  dozen  of  the  guests 
at  the  first  step,  and  never  know  it. 

"  I  don't  think  he  would,  papa  ;  and  he's  my  little  wife, 
and  I  want  him,"  persisted  'Toinette. 

"  No,  no,  dear,"  interposed  Mrs.  Legrange.  "  Cousin 
Tom  wouldn't  want  to  come,  and  my  little  girl  mustn't 
tease." 

"No,  mamma;  but  he's  my  little  wife,"  murmured 
'Toinette,  going  back  to  her  bracelets  with  a  shadow  of  dis 
appointment  in  the  curve  of  her  pretty  mouth. 

"  If  mamma  is  willing,  I  will  ask  Cousin  Tom,  and  he 
can  do  as  he  likes  about  accepting,"  said  the  fond  father, 
watching  his  Sunshine's  face. 


SUNSHINE.  17 

Mamma  smiled  roguishly,  murmuring,  — 

(  '"So  long  as  a  woman's  possessed  of  a  tear, 

She'll  always  have  her  own  way;'" 

and  then  added  aloud,  — 

"  Just  as  you  like,  of  course,  papa ;  but  here  is  Susan, 
ready  to  take  'Toinette  for  her  walk." 

The  dining-room  door  opened  softly,  and  a  fresh,  pretty- 
looking  nursery-maid  stepped  in,  saying, — 

"  Is  Miss  'Toinette  ready  to  come  up  stairs,  ma'am?" 

"  Yes,  Susan.     You  may   take  the  bracelets,  pet ;   but, 
when  you  go  out,  leave  them  in  the  drawer  of  your  bureau." 

"  Yes,  mamma.     Good-by,  mamma  and  papa  ;  and  don't 
forget  my  little  wife,  papa." 

"  I  won't  forget,  Sunshine,"  said  Mr.  Legrange,   laugh 
ing,  as  he  followed  the  child  and  nurse  to  the  door,  and 
watched  them  up  stairs. 
2 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE     LITTLE    WIFE. 

THREE  o'clock  came  at  last,  although  'Toinette  had  be 
come  fully  persuaded  it  never  would ;  and  the  little  guests 
arrived  as  punctually  as  juvenile  guests  are  apt  to  arrive. 
Later  on  in  life,  people  either  expect  less  pleasure  from  meet 
ing  each  other,  or  are  more  willing  to  defer  securing  it ;  or 
perhaps  it  is  that  they  are  willing  to  allow  their  friends  the 
first  chance  of  appropriating  the  happiness  in  store  for  all. 
If  none  of  these,  what  is  the  reason,  children,  that,  at  grown 
parties,  the  struggle  is  to  see  who  shall  arrive  last,  wrhile  at 
ours  it  is  to  see  who  shall  come  first? 

'Toinette  was  dressed,  and  in  the  drawing-room  ready  to 
receive  her  little  friends,  by  half-past  two  ;  and  very  nice 
she  looked  in  her  light-blue  merino  frock,  with  its  pretty 
embroideries,  her  long  golden  hair  curled  in  the  feathery 
ringlets  Susan  was  so  proud  of  making,  her  sleeves  looped 
up  with  the  new  bracelets,  and  a  little  embroidered  hand 
kerchief  just  peeping  out  of  her  pocket. 

18 


THE    LITTLE    WIEE.  19 

Mrs.  Legrange,  who  sat  reading  by  the  fire,  watched  ^  ith 
some  amusement  and  more  anxiety  the  movements  of  the 
little  keauty,  who  walked  slowly  up  and  down  the  room, 
twisting  her  head  to  look  now  at  one  shoulder  and  now  at 
the  other,  now  at  the  flow  of  her  skirts  behind,  and  now  at 
the  dainty  fit  of  her  bronze  cloth  gaiter-boots.  At  last, 
stopping  before  the  long  mirror,  Miss  'Toinette  began  prac 
tising  the  courtesy  she  had  learned  at  dancing-school,  fin 
ishing  by  throwing  a  kiss  from  the  tips  of  her  fingers  to  the 
graceful  little  shadow  in  the  mirror. 

u  She  will  be  spoiled,  entirely  spoiled,  before  she  is  a  year 
older,"  thought  the  mother  anxiously.  "  She  is  so  beauti 
ful  !  and  every  one  tells  her  of  it.  What  shall  I  do? " 

But  sometimes,  when  our  task  seems  too  difficult  for  us, 
God  takes  it  into  his  own  hand,  and  does  it  in  his  own  way, 
though  that  way  to  us  be  strange  and  painful. 

While  Mrs.  Legrange  still  hesitated  whether  to  speak, 
and  what  to  say,  the  door-bell  rang,  and  'Toinette  rushed 
away  to  meet  her  friends,  and  take  them  to  the  dressing- 
room,  where  they  were  to  leave  their  outside  garments  ;  and 
the  mother  laid  aside  her  book,  and  prepared  to  help  in  en 
tertaining  the  little  people. 


?()  THE    LITTLE    WIFE. 

Another  ring  at  the  bell ;  another  troop  of  little  feet,  and 
peal  of  merry  voices  ;  another  and  another  ;  and,  following 
the  last,  a  firmer  step  upon  the  stair,  and  tl.e  appearance  in 
the  drawing-room  of  a  tall,  fine-looking  young  man,  of 
twenty  two  or  three  years  old,  who  came  forward,  offering 
his  hand  to  Mrs.  Legrange. 

"  Why,  Tom,"  said  she,  "  did  you  really  come?  " 

"  As  you  see,  Cousin  Fanny.  Paul  gave  me  the  in 
vitation,  with  my  little  wife's  love ;  and  how  could  I 
decline?" 

"  I  am  sure  it  is  very  good  of  you  to  come  and  help  enter 
tain  ;  but  I  am  afraid  it  will  be  a  sad  bore.  Miss  Minnie 
Wall,  the  oldest  of  the  young  ladies,  is  but  just  fourteen  ; 
and  Bessie  Rider,  the  youngest,  is  not  yet  six." 

"  But  I  came  to  visit  my  little  wife,"  persisted  Mr.  Bur 
roughs,  laughing  gayly. 

"  Here  she  is,  then,  with  all  the  rest  behind  her  ;  "  and,  as 
the  little  hostess  caught  sight  of  her  new  guest,  she  flew 
toward  him,  crying,  — 

"Oh,  my  little  wife  has  come  !  —  my  little  wife  !  " 

Every  one  laughed,  except  the  young  man  thus  oddly 
addressed,  who  gravely  extended  his  hand,  saying,  — 


THE    LITTLE    WIFE.  21 

"  Miss  Toinette,  allow  me  to  wish  you  many  happy 
returns  of  this  fortunate  day." 

'Toinette  looked  at  him  a  moment  in  surprise,  then,  glan 
cing  at  the  other  guests,  said  innocently, — 

"  I  guess  you  talk  that  way  because  the  girls  are  here  ; 
but  I  like  the  way  you  are  always,  best." 

This  time  Tom  laughed  as  loud  as  the  rest,  and,  catching 
the  child  in  his  arms,  kissed  her  a  dozen  times,  saying,  — 

"  That  is  it,  Sunshine.  Let  us  be  natural,  and  have  a 
good  time.  Get  the  table-cloth,  and  make  an  elephant  of 


CHAPTER  III. 

CHERRYTOE. 

"  LET  us  have  a  dance  !  "  exclaimed  Minnie  Wall,  when 
all  the  games  had  been  played,  and  the  little  people  stood 
for  a  moment,  wondering  what  they  should  do  next. 

"  O  Mrs.  Legrange  !  will  you  play  for  us?  " 

"  Certainly.  What  will  you  have,  Minnie?  But,  in  the 
first  place,  can  you  all  dance  ?  " 

"  Yes'm,  every  one  of  us.  Even  'Toinette  and  Bessie  have 
learned  at  their  Kindergarten  ;  and  the  rest  of  us  all  go  to 
Mr.  Papanti.  O  Mrs.  Legrange  !  last  Saturday,  when  you 
let  Susan  bring  'Toinette  to  dancing-school,  I  told  Mr.  Pa 
panti  what  a  pretty  little  dancer  she  was  ;  and  he  made  her 
stand  up,  and  she  learned  the  cachuca  with  half  a  dozen 
others  of  us  ;  and  he  did  laugh  and  bow  so  at  her,  you  never 
saw ;  and  he  called  her  enfant  Cherrytoe,  or  something 
like  that"  — 

"  Cerito,"  suggested  Mrs.  Legrange,  smiling. 

"  Yes'm,  I  guess  that  was  it ;  and  she  learned  it  beauti 
fully.     Have  you  seen  her  dance  it?" 
22 


CHERRYTOE.  23 

"  Yes,  the  old  gentleman  called  me  Cherrytoe  ;  and  you 
must,  mamma,  and  every  one,  because  I  dance  so  pretty, 
with  my  little  toes.  Will  you  call  me  Cherry  toe  always, 
mamma?"  asked  'Toinette,  with  such  a  complacent  delight 
in  her  own  accomplishments,  that  her  mother's  smile  was 
as  sad  as  it  was  tender.  But  she  felt  that  this  was  not  the 
time  or  place  to  reprove  the  vanity  so  rankly  springing  in 
the  child's  heart ;  so  she  only  said,  — 

"  Mr.  Papanti  was  in  fun  when  he  called  you  Cherrytoe, 
my  darling.  She  was  a  woman  who  danced  better  than  I 
hope  you  ever  will.  Now,  who  is  ready  for  Virginia  reel  ?  " 

Tom  Burroughs  led  Minnie  Wall  to  the  head  of  the  set, 
the  other  children  rushed  for  places,  Mrs.  Legrange  seated 
herself  at  the  piano,  and  the  merry  dance  went  on  ;  but, 
when  it  was  over,  Minnie  Wall  returned  to  Mrs.  Le- 
grange's  side,  followed  by  two  or  three  more,  begging  her  to 
play  the  cachuca,  and  see  how  nicely  'Toinette  could  dance 
it.  Half  unwillingly  the  mother  complied,  and  found  her 
self  really  astonished  as  she  noticed  the  graceful  evolutions 
and  accurate  time  of  the  child,  who  went  through  the  intri 
cate  motions  of  the  dance  without  a  single  mistake,  and,  at 
the  close,  dropped  her  little  courtesy,  and  kissed  her  little 
hand,  with  the  grace  and  self-possession  of  a  danseuse. 


24  CHERRYTOE. 

The  children  crowded  around  her  with  a  clamor  of  de 
light  and  surprise  ;  but  the  mother,  anxiously  watching  her 
darling's  flushed  face  and  sparkling  eyes,  whispered  to  her 
cousin,  as  he  playfully  applauded, — 

"  Oh,  don't,  Tom  !  The  child  will  be  utterly  ruined  by  so 
much  flattery  and  admiration.  I  feel  very  badly  about  it, 
I  assure  you." 

"  But  she  is  absolutely  so  bewitching !  How  can  we 
help  admiring  her?"  replied  he,  laughing. 

"  No  :  but  it  is  wrong ;  it  won't  do,"  persisted  Mrs.  Le- 
grange.  "  Just  see  how  excited  and  happy  she  looks  be 
cause  they  are  all  admiring  her !  You  must  help  me  to 
check  it,  Tom.  Come,  you  are  so  famous  for  stories,  tell 
them  one  about  a  peacock,  or  something,  —  a  story  with  a 
moral  about  being  vain,  fou.  know,  only  not  too  pointed." 

"  A  pill  with  a  very  thick  sugar-coat,"  suggested  Mr.  Bur 
roughs,  and,  as  his  cousin  nodded,  continued,  in  a  louder 
voice,  — 

"  A  story,  ladies  and  gentlemen  !  Who  will  listen  to  the 
humble  attempts  of  an  unfortunate  improvisator  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  a  story  ;  let  us  have  a  story  !  "  shouted  with 
one  accord  both  girls  and  boys  ;  and  with  'Toinette  perched 
upon  his  knee,  and  the  rest  grouped  about  him,  Cousin 
Tom  began  the  story  of  THE  CHILDREN  OF  MERRIGOLAND. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  MEKRIGOLAND. 

ONCE  upon  a  time,  in  the  pleasant  country  of  Merrigo- 
laml,  all  the  fathers  and  mothers,  the  uncles  and  aunts,  the 
grandpas  and  grandmas,  in  fact,  all  the  grown-up  people 
of  every  sort,  were  invited  to  the  governor's  house  to  spend 
a  week ;  and  all  the  cooks  and  chambermaids,  and  nurses 
and  waiters,  and  coachmen  and  gardeners,  in  Merrigoland, 
were  invited  to  go  and  wait  upon  them :  so  there  was  no 
body  left  at  home  in  any  of  the  houses  but  the  children ; 
not  even  the  babies  ;  for  their  mothers  had  carried  them  in 
their  arms  to  the  governor's  house. 

"  What  fun  !  "  shouted  the  children.  "  We  can  do  every 
thing  we  have  a  mind  to  now." 

"  We'll  eat  all  the  cake  and  pies  and  preserves  and  can 
dies  in  the  country,"  said  Patty  Pettitoes. 

"  We'll  swing  on  all  the  gates,  and  climb  all  the  cherry- 
trees,  and  chase  all  the  roosters,  and  play  ball  against  the 
parlor- windows,"  said  Tom  Tearcoat. 


2G  THE    CHILDREN    OF    MERTIIGOLAND. 

"  We'll  lie  down  on  the  sofas,  and  read  stories  all  day, 
and  go  to  sleep  before  the  fire  at  night,"  said  Dowsabelle 
Dormouse. 

"  We'll  dress  up  in  all  our  mothers'  clothes,  and  put  on 
their  rings  and  breastpins,"  said  little  Finnikin  Fine,  push 
ing  a  chair  in  front  of  the  looking-glass,  and  climbing  up  to 
look  at  herself. 

"  We'll  get  our  stockings  dirty,  and  tear  our  frocks,  and 
tumble  our  hair,  and  not  wash  our  hands  at  dinner-time, 
nor  put  on  our  eating-aprons,"  said  Georgie  Tearcoat,  Tom's 
younger  sister. 

"  Yes,  yes :  we'll  all  do  just  as  we  like  best  for  a  whole 
week  ;  for  father  and  mother  said  we  might ! "  shouted  all  the 
children  in  Merrigoland,  and  then  laughed  so  loud,  that  the 
mice  ran  out  of  their  holes  to  see  what  was  the  matter ;  and 
the  cats  never  noticed  them,  they  were  so  busy  sticking  the 
hair  straight  up  on  their  backs,  and  making  their  tails 
look  like  chimney-brushes  ;  while  all  the  birds  in  the  pleas 
ant  gardens  of  Merrigoland  fluttered  their  wings,  and 
sung, — 

"  Only  listen  to  the  row! 
What  in  the  world's  the  matter  now? 
Tweet,  tweet!     Can't  sing  a  note; 
My  heart's  just  jumping  out  of  my  throat. 


THE  CHILDKEN  OF  MERRIGOLAND.  27 

Bobolink,  bobolink, 
What  do  you  think? 
Is  the  world  veiy  glad, 
Or  has  it  gone  mad?  " 

So  the  children  all  did  what  they  liked  best,  and  frol 
icked  in  the  sunshine  like  a  swarm  of  butterflies,  or  like 
several  hundred  little  kittens,  until  it  came  night ;  and  then 
they  went  into  the  houses,  and  put.  themselves  to  bed.  But 
some  of  them,  I  am  afraid,  forgot  to  say  their  prayers  when 
their  mammas  were  not  there  to  remind  them  of  it. 

The  next  morning  they  all  jumped  up,  and  dressed  very 
gayly  (for  children  do  not  often  lie  in  bed),  and  came  down 
to  breakfast :  but,  lo  and  behold  !  there  was  no  breakfast 
ready,  nor  even  any  fire  in  the  ranges  and  cooking-stoves, 
and  in  some  houses  not  even  any  shavings  and  kindling- 
wood  to  make  a  fire  ;  and  the  cows,  who  were  mostly  of  a 
Scotch  breed,  came  to  the  bars,  calling,  — 

"  Moo,  moo,  moo! 
Who'll  milk  us  noo?" 

and  the  hens  all  stuck  their  heads  through  the  bars  of  the 
poultry-yard  fence,  and  cried,  — 

"  Kah-dah-cut,  kah-dah-cut! 
Are  you  having  your  hair  cut? 
Can't  you  give  us  some  corn 

This  beautiful  mom?  " 


28  THE  CHILDREN  OF  MERRIGOLAND. 

and  the  pigeons  came  flying  down  to  the  back  door,  mur 
muring,  — 

"  Coo,  coo,  cool 

Must  we  breakfast  on  dew  ?  " 

and  all  the  little  children  began  to  cry  as  loud  as  they 
could,  and  call,  — 

"  Mamma,  mamma,  mamma! 
I  want  you  and  papa!  " 

So,  altogether,  the  older  children  were  just  about  crazy, 
and  felt  as  if  they'd  like  to  cry  too.  But  that  never  would 
do,  of  course ,  for  nobody  cries  when  old  enough  to  know 
better :  so  after  running  round  to  each  others'  houses,  and 
talking  a  little,  they  agreed  they  would  all  work  together, 
and  that  every  one  should  do  what  he  could  do  best. 

So  Tom  Tearcoat,  instead  of  climbing  trees,  and  smash 
ing  the  furniture  with  his  hatchet,  went  and  split  kindlings 
in  all  the  wood-houses  ;  and  his  sister  Georgie,  who  never 
wanted  to  be  in  the  house,  carried  them  into  the  kitchens  ; 
and  Patty  Pettitoes  tried  her  hand  at  cooking,  instead  of 
eating ;  and  Dowsabelle  Dormouse  made  the  beds,  and  beat 
up  the  sofa-pillows  ;  and  Mattie  Motherly,  whose  chief  de 
light  was  playing  at  housekeeping  in  her  baby-house,  set 
the  tables,  and  put  the  parlors  to  rights.  But  there  seemed 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  MERKIGOLAND.          29 

to  be  nothing  that  Finnikin  Fine  could  do ;  for  she  had 
never  thought  of  any  thing  but  dressing  in  all  the  gay 
clothes  she  could  get,  and  looking  into  the  mirror  until  she 
had  worn  quite  a  place  in  the  carpet  before  it.  But,  at  last, 
some  one  said,  — 

' '  Oh  !  Finnikin  may  dress  the  little  children :  that  will 
suit  her  best." 

So  Finnikin  tried  to  do  that.  But  she  spent  so  much 
time  tying  up  the  little  girls'  sleeves  with  ribbons,  and  part 
ing  the  little  boys'  hair  behind,  that,  when  breakfast-time 
came,  they  were  not  half  ready,  and  began  to  cry,  — 

"0  Finnikin,  0! 
Don't  spend  your  time  so, 
But  put  on  our  dresses, 
And  smooth  out  our  tresses: 
We  don't  care  for  curls, 
Either  boys  or  girls, 
If  we  are  but  neat, 
And  may  sit  down  to  eat." 

So  at  last  Finuikin  followed  their  advice,  and,  when  she 
had  dressed  all  the  children,  was  so  tired  and  hungry,  that 
she  was  glad  to  sit  down  and  eat  her  breakfast  without  even 
looking  in  the  mirror  once  while  she  was  at  table. 

But  nobody  knew  how  to  milk  the  cows ;  and,  although 


oO          THE  CHILDREN  OF  MERKIGOLAND. 

Tom  arid  Georgie  Tearcoat  tried  with  all  their  might,  they 
could  not  manage  to  get  a  drop  of  milk  from  one  of  them, 
and  no  one  else  even  tried.  But,  just  as  the  children  were 
all  wondering  what  they  should  do,  little  Peter  Phinn,  who 
had  been  listening  and  looking,  with  his  hands  in  the  pock 
ets  of  his  ragged  trousers,  and  a  broad  grin  on  his  freckled 
face,  said  slowly,  — 

"  I  know  how  to  milk." 

"  You  do  !  Why  didn't  you  say  so,  Peter  Phinn?  "  cried 
all  the  children  angrily. 

u  Oh  !  I  didn't  know  as  you'd  want  me  and  Merry  amongst 
you,"  said  Peter. 

"  Why  not?  Of  course  we  do,"  said  Patty  Pettitoes,  who 
was  a  very  good-natured  little  girl. 

"  Because  Finnikin  Fine  told  Merry  once  she  wasn't  fit  to 
play  with  her,  when  her  clothes  was  so  poor,"  said  Peter. 

"  Did  Finnikin  say  that?  "  asked  Patty. 

"  Yes,  she  did,  sure ;  and  she  called  her  a  little  Paddy, 
and  said,  if  she  wore  such  an  old,  mean  gown  and  bonnet, 
she'd  ought  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  folks  that  dressed 
nicer,  as  she  did." 

Then  all  the  children  turned  and  looked  at  Finnikin  Fine, 
and  said,  — 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  MERRIGOLAND.  31 

•'  Oh,  shame,  Finnikin  !  for  shame  to  talk  so  to  good  little 
Merry  Phinn  !  " 

Then  Finnikin  hung  down  her  head,  and  blushed  very 
much,  and  began  to  cry ;  but  Merry  Phinn  went  close  to 
her,  and  whispered,  — 

"  Never  mind  them,  honey.  I'll  forget  it  sooner  than 
you  will,  and  I'll  come  and  help  you  dress  the  children 
to-morrow  morning." 

"  And  I'll  give  you  my  new  pink  muslin,  and  my  white 
beads,  and  my  bronze  slippers  with  pink  rosettes,  and,  and," 
began  Finnikin  ;  but  Merry  put  her  little  brown  hand  over 
her  mouth,  and  said,  laughing,  — 

"  And,  if  I  get  all  these  fine  things,  I'd  be  as  bad  as  your 
self,  Finny  darling.  No  :  I'll  wear  my  calico  gown,  and  my 
sun-bonnet,  and  my  strong  shoes  ;  and  you'll  see  I  can  get 
to  rny  work  or  my  play  without  half  the  bother  you'd  make 
in  your  finery." 

So  Finnikin,  still  blushing,  and  crying  a  little,  put  her 
arm  round  Merry's  neck,  and  kissed  her  ;  and  then  she  ran 
and  look  off  the  rings  and  pins  and  ribbons  and  flowers  she 
had  found  time  since  breakfast  to  put  on,  and  changed  her 
blue  silk  dress  for  a  neat  gingham  and  a  white  apron,  and 
put  her  hair  into  a  net,  instead  of  the  wreath  and  curls  it 


,  32  THE  CHILDREN  OF  MERRIGOLAND. 

had  cost  her  so  much  trouble  to  arrange.  And,  when  she 
came  down  stairs  again,  all  the  children  cried,  — 

"  Only  see  how  pretty  Finuikin  Fine  is  in  her  plain  dress  ! 
She  looks  like  a  little  girl  now,  instead  of  a  wax  doll  in  a 
toy-shop  window." 

u  Yes,"  said  Tom  Tearcoat ;  "  and  a  fellow  could  play 
with  her  now  in  some  comfort.  It  used  to  be,  — 

u  '  Dear  me,  you  rude  boy  !  you've  gone  and  torn  my 
flounce  ! '  or,  '  You've  spoilt  my  bow  ! '  or,  '  Dear  me,  you 
troublesome  creature  !  you've  made  me  so  nervous  ! ' ' 

Every  one  laughed  to  hear  Tom  mimic  Finnikin,  he  did 
it  so  well ;  but,  when  they  saw  that  the  little  girl  herself  was 
troubled  by  it,  they  left  off  directly,  and  began  to  talk  of 
other  things  ;  and  Tom  came  and  tucked  a  big  green  apple 
into  her  pocket,  and  a  lump  of  maple-sugar  into  her  hand. 

Then  Peter  and  Merry,  who  had  always  been  used  to 
waiting  upon  themselves,  and  doing  all  the  work  they  were 
able  to  do,  showed  the  other  children  many  things  which 
they  needed  to  know,  and  helped  them  in  so  many  ways, 
that  the  troubles  of  the  morning  were  soon  forgotten  ;  and 
when,  after  clearing  away  the  dinner,  the  little  people  all 
came  out  to  play  upon  the  green,  they  agreed  to  crown 
Peter  and  Merry  King  and  Queen  of  Merrigoland  from 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  MERRIGOLAND.          33 

three  o'clock  iii  the  afternoon  until  sunset,  because  they 
were  the  only  boy  and  girl  in  all  the  land  who  knew  how 
to  do  the  work  that  must  every  day  be  done  to  make  us  all 
comfortable.  But  Peter  and  Merry,  who  were  very  sensible 
as  well  as  very  good-natured  children,  said,  — 

u  No,  no,  no  !  There  shall  be  no  kings  or  queens  in  Mer- 
rigoland.  We  will  teach  you  all  that  we  know,  and  you 
shall  teach  us  all  that  you  know,  and  so  we  will  help  each 
other ;  and  no  one  shall  think  himself  better  than  any  one 
else,  or  forget  that  none  of  us  can  do  well  without  the  help 
of  all  the  rest." 

So  the  children  shouted, — 

"  Hurrah  for  Peter  and  Merry,  and  down  with  fine  ways 
and  fine  clothes  !  " 

And  then  they  gave  three  cheers  so  loud,  that  the  fathers 
arid  mothers,  and  grandpas  and  grandmas,  and  uncles  and 
aunts,  and  brothers  and  sisters,  heard  them,  as  they  sat  at 
dinner  in  the  governor's  house  ;  and  all  came  trooping  home 
in  a  great  hurry  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

But  when  they  heard  the  story,  and  found  how  well  the 
children  were  going  on,  the,y  said, — 

u  We   could  teach  them   nothing  better  than  what  they 
are  learning  for  themselves.     We  may  let  them  alone." 
8 


34  THE  CHILDREN  OF  MERUIGOLAND. 

So  they  all  went  back  to  the  governor's  house,  and  spent 
the  rest  of  the  week,  and  "  — 

"  Tea  is  ready,  Mrs.  Legrange,"  said  James  at  the  par 
lor-door. 


CHAPTER    V. 

THE   RUNAWAY. 

TEA  was  over,  and  the  little  guests  made  ready  to  go 
home.  Cousin  Tom,  declining  Mrs.  Legrange's  invitation 
to  dinner  on  plea  of  another  engagement,  delighted  Miss 
Minnie  Wall's  heart  by  offering  to  wait  upon  her  home, 
but  rather  injured  the  effect  of  his  politeness  by  taking 
Willy  and  Jerry  Noble  upon  the  other  side,  and  talking 
pegtop  with  them  as  glibly  as  he  talked  opera  with  the 
young  lady. 

As  for  the  rest,  some  went  alone,  some  with  their  nurses, 
some  with  each  other.  Little  Bessie  Rider  was  the  last ; 
and,  when  the  nurse  did  not  come  for  her  as  had  been  prom 
ised,  Mrs.  Legrange  bid  Susan  lead  her  home,  leaving 
'Toinette  in  the  drawing-room  till  her  return. 

"And  I  must  go  and  lie  down  a  little  before  1  dress  for 
dinner,"  continued  she  to  'Toinette.  "  So,  Sunshine,  I  shall 
leave  you  here  alone,  if  you  will  promise  not  to  touch  any 
thing  you  should  not,  or  to  go  too  near  the  fire." 


36  THE    RUNAWAY. 

The  little  girl  promised ;  and,  with  a  lingering  kiss,  her 
mother  left  her. 

Alone  in  the  twilight,  "Toinette  sat  for  a  while  upon  the 
rug,  watching  the  bright  coals  as  they  tinkled  through  the 
grate,  or  rushed  in  roaring  flame  up  the  chimney. 

"  I  wish  I  was  a  fire-fairy,  and  lived  in  that  big  red  hole 
right  in  the  middle  of  the  fire,"  thought  'Toinette.  "  Then 
I  would  wear  such  a  beautiful  dress  just  like  gold,  and  a 
wreath  on  my  head  all  blazing  with  fire  ;  and  I  would  dance 
a-tiptoe  away  up  the  chimney  and  into  the  sky :  and  per 
haps  I  should  come  to  heaven  ;  no,  to  the  sun.  I  wonder 
if  the  sun  is  heaven  for  the  fire-fairies,  and  I  wonder  if 
they  dance  in  the  sunset." 

So  'Toinette  jumped  up,  and,  running  to  one  of  the  long 
windows,  put  her  little  eager  face  close  to  the  glass,  and 
looked  far  away  across  the  square,  and  down  the  long 
street  beyond,  to  the  beautiful  western  sky,  all  rosy  and 
golden  and  purple  with  the  sunset-clouds  ;  while  just  above 
them  a  great  white  star  stood  trembling  in  the  deep  blue, 
as  if  frightened  at  finding  itself  out  all  alone  in  the  night. 

"  No,"  thought  'Toinette  ;  "  I  don't  want  to  be  a  fire- 
fairy,  and  dance  in  the  sunset :  I  want  to  be  a  —  a  angel,  I 
guess,  and  live  in  that  beautiful  star.  Then  I'd  have  a 


THE    RUNAWAY.  6^ 

dress  all  white  and  shining  like  mamma's  that  she  wore  to 
the  ball.  But  mamma  said  the  little  girl  in  the  story  was 
naughty  to  like  her  pretty  dress,  and  she  weared  a  giug- 
ham  one  when  she  was  good.  Guess  I  won't  be  any  fairy. 
I'll  be  Finnikin  Fine,  and  wear  a  gingham  gown  and  an 
apron.  I'll  tell  papa  to  carry  away  the  bracelets  too.  I'm 
going  to  be  good  like  Merry  that  weared  a  sun-bonnet." 

Eager  to  commence  the  proposed  reform,  'Toinette  tugged 
at  the  bracelet  upon  her  left  shoulder  until  she  broke  the 
clasp  and  tore  the  pretty  lace  of  her  under-sleeve. 

"•  Dear,  dear,  what  a  careless  child ! "  exclaimed  the 
little  girl,  remembering  the  phrase  so  often  repeated  to  her. 
"  But  it  ain't  any  matter,  I  guess,"  added  she,  brightening 
up ;  "  for  I  sha'n't  have  any  under-sleeve  to  my  gingham 
dress.  Susan's  aunt  doesn't." 

'Toinette  paused,  with  her  hand  upon  the  other  bracelet, 
trying  to  remember  whether  Susan,  or  the  little  girl  who 
came  to  see  her,  was  the  aunt.  The  question  was  not  yet 
settled,  when  the  sound  of  music  in  the  street  below  at 
tracted  'Toinette's  attention.  Clinging  to  the  window-ledge 
so  as  to  see  over  the  iron  railing  of  the  balcony,  she  peeped 
down,  and  saw  a  small  dark  man  walking  slowly  by  the 
house,  turning  the  crank  of  a  hand-organ  which  he  carried 


38  THE    RUNAWAY. 

at  his  side.  Upon  the  organ  was  perched  a  monkey,  dressed 
in  a  red  coat  with  gilt  buttons,  a  little  cocked  hat,  and  blue 
trousers.  He  was  busily  eating  a  seed-cake  ;  pausing  now 
and  then  to  look  about  him  in  a  sort  of  anxious  way,  chat 
tering  all  the  while  as  if  he  thought  some  one  wanted  to 
take  it  away  from  him. 

'Toinette  had  never  before  seen  a  monkey  ;  and  she  stared 
at  this  one  in  great  surprise  and  delight,  taking  him  for  a 
little  mau,  and  his  inarticulate  chattering  for  words  in  some 
foreign  language  such  as  she  had  sometimes  heard  spoken. 

The  music  also  suited  the  little  girl's  ear  better  than  the 
best  strains  of  the  Italian  opera  would  have  done ;  and 
altogether  she  was  resolved  to  see  and  hear  more  both  of 
the  monkey  and  the  music. 

"  Mamma's  asleep,  and  Susan  gone  out ;  so  I  can't  ask 
leave,  but  I'll  only  stay  a  little  tiny  minute,  and  tell  the 
little  man  what  is  his  name,  and  what  he  is  saying," 
reasoned  the  pretty  runaway,  primly  wrapping  herself 
in  her  mother's  breakfast^shawl  left  lying  upon  the  sofa, 
and  tying  her  handkerchief  over  her  head. 

"  Now  I's  decent,  and  the  cold  won't  catch  me."  mur 
mured  she,  regarding  herself  in  the  mirror  with  much  sat 
isfaction,  and  then  running  softly  down  stairs.  Susan, 


THE    RUNAWAY.  39 

Stinking  she  should  be  back  directly,  had  left  the  catcli- 
latch  of  the  front-door  fastened  up  :  so  'Toinette  had  only  to 
turn  the  great  silver  handle  of  the  other  latch ;  and  this,  by 
putting  both  hands  to  it  and  using  all  her  strength,  she  finally 
succeeded  in  doing,  although  she  could  not  close  the  door 
behind  her.  Leaving  it  ajar,  'Toinette  ran  down  the  steps, 
and  looked  eagerly  along  the  square  until  she  discovered 
the  hand-organ  man  with  his  monkey  just  turning  the  cor 
ner,  and  flew  after  him  as  fast  as  her  little  feet  would  curry 
her.  But,  with  all  her  haste,  the  man  had  already  turned 
another  corner  before,  she  overtook  him,  and  was  walking, 
more  quickly  than  he  had  yet  done,  down  a  narrow  street. 
He  was  not  playing  now  ;  but  the  monkey,  who  had  finished 
his  cake,  was  climbing  over  his  master's  shoulders,  running 
down  his  arms  and  back,  chattering,  grinning,  making  faces, 
and  evidently  having  a  little  game  of  romps  on  his  own 
account. 

'Toinette,  very  much  amused,  tripped  along  behind,  talk 
ing  as  fast  as  the  monkey,  and  asking  all  manner  of  ques 
tions,  to  none  of  which  either  monkey  or  man  made  any 
reply  ;  while  all  the  time  the  beautiful  rosy  light  was  fading 
out  of  the  west,  and  the  streets  were  growing  dark  and 


40  THE    RUNAWAY. 

crowded;  and  as  the  organ-grinder,  followed  by  'Toirteiie, 
turned  from  one  into  another,  each  was  dirtier  and  nar 
rower  and  more  disagreeable  than  the  last. 

All  at  once,  the  man,  after  hesitating  for  a  moment,  dashed 
across  the  street,  and  into  a  narrow  alley  opposite.  Two 
or  three  dirt-carts  were  passing  at  the  same  time  ;  and 
'Toinette,  afraid  to  follow,  stood  upon  the  edge  of  the  side 
walk,  looking  wistfully  after  him,  and  beginning  to  wonder 
if  she  ought  not  to  be  going  home. 

While  she  wondered,  a  number  of  rude  boys  came  rush 
ing  by  ;  and,  either  by  accident  or  malice,  the  largest  one,  iij 
passing  the  little  girl,  pushed  her  so  roughly,  that  she  stum 
bled  off  the  sidewalk  altogether,  and  fell  into  the  gutter. 

A  little  hurt,  a  good  deal  frightened,  and  still  more  in 
dignant,  'Toinette  picked  herself  up,  and  looked  ruefully  at 
the  mud  upon  her  pretty  dress,  but  would  not  allow  herself 
lo  cry,  as  she  longed  to  do. 

u  If  I'd  got  my  gingham  dress  on,  it  wouldn't  do  so  much 
harm,"  thought  she,  her  mind  returning  to  the  story  she 
had  that  afternoon  heard ;  and  then  all  at  once  an  anxious 
longing  for  home  and  mother  seized  the  little  heart,  and 
sent  the  tiny  feet  flying  up  the  narrow  street  as  fast  as  they 


THE    RUNAWAY.  41 

could  move.  But,  at  the  corner,  'Toinette,  who  never  ].a<« 
seen  the  street  before,  took  the  wrong  turn  ;  and,  although 
she  ran  as  fast  as  she  couid,  every  step  now  led  her  farther 
from  home,  and  deeper  into  the  squalid  by-streets  arid 
alleys,  among  which  she  was  lost. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

MOTHER   WINCH. 

IN  a  narrow  court,  hardly  lighted  by  i,he  one  gas-light 
flaring  at  its  entrance,  'Toinette  stopped,  and,  looking  dis 
mally  about  her,  began  at  last  to  cry.  At  the  sound,  a 
crooked  old  woman,  with  a  great  bag  on  her  back,  who  had 
been  resting  upon  the  step  of  a  door  close  by,  although  the 
little  girl  had  not  noticed  her,  rose,  and  came  toward  her. 

"What's  the  matter,  young  one?"  asked  the  old  woman 
harshly. 

"  I  don't  know  the  way  home,  and  I'm  lost !  "  said  'Toi 
nette,  wiping  her  eyes,  and  looking  doubtfully  at  the  old 
woman,  who  was  very  dark  and  hairy  as  to  the  face,  very 
blinking  and  wicked  as  to  the  eyes,  and  very  crooked  and 
warped  as  to  figure,  while  her  dress  seemed  to  be  a  mass 
of  rags  held  together  by  dirt. 

"Lost,  be  you?"  asked  this  unpleasant  old  woman,  seiz 
ing  Mrs.  Legrange's  beautiful  breakfast-shawl,  and  twitch 
ing  it  off  the  child's  shoulders.  "And  where'd  you  git 
till.-;  'ere  pretty  shawl?" 

42 


MOTHER   WINCH.  43 

•'  It's  my  mamma's,  and  you'd  better  not  touch  it ;  you 
might  soil  it,  you  know,"  said  'Toinette  anxiously. 

"Heh!  Why,  I  guess  you're  a  little  lady,  ain't  you? 
B'long  to  the  big-bugs,  don't  you?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  want  to  go  home,"  stammered  'Toi 
nette,  perplexed  and  frightened. 

"  Well,  you  come  right  in  here  along  o'  me,  and  wait  till 
I  get  my  pack  off;  then  I'll  show  you  the  way  home,"  said 
the  woman,  as,  seizing  the  little  girl's  hand,  she  led  her  to 
the  bottom  of  the  court,  and  down  some  steps  into  a  foul- 
smelling  cellar-room,  perfectly  dark,  and  very  cold. 

"  You  stop  right  there  till  I  get  a  light,"  said  the  woman, 
letting  go  the  child's  hand  when  they  reached  the  middle 
of  the  room.  "  Don't  ye  budge  now." 

Too  much  frightened  to  speak,  or  even  cry,  'Toinette  did 
as  she  was  bid,  and  stood  perfectly  still  until  the  old  woman 
had  found  a  match,  and,  drawing  it  across  the  rusty  stove, 
lighted  a  tallow  candle,  and  stuck  it  into  the  mouth  of  a 
junk-bottle.  This  she  set  upon  the  table  ;  and,  sinking  into 
a  chair  betude  it,  stretched  out  a  skinny  hand,  and,  seizing 
'Toiuette  by  the  arm,  dragged  her  close  to  her. 

"  Yes,  you  kin  let  me  have  that  pooty  shawl,  little  gal, 
cause  —  Eh,  what  line  clo'es  we've  got  on  !  "  exclaimed  the 


44  MOTIIEIl   WINCH. 

hag,  as,  pulling  off  the  shawl  'Toinette  had  again  wrapped 
about  her,  she  examined  her  dress  attentively  for  a  moment, 
and  then,  fixing  her  eyes  sternly  upon  the  child,  continued 
angrily,  — 

"  Now  look  at  here,  young  un.  Them  ain't  your  clo'es  ; 
you  know  they  ain't.  You  stole  'em." 

"  Stealed  my  clothes  !  "  exclaimed  'Toinette  in  great  in 
dignation.  "  Why,  no,  I  didn't.  Mamma  gave  them  to  me, 
and  Susan  sewed  them." 

"  No  sech  a  tiling,  you  young  liar !  "  returned  the  old 
woman,  shaking  her  roughly  by  one  arm.  "  You  stole  'em  ; 
and  I'm  a-going  to  take  'em  off,  and  give  you  back  your 
own,  or  some  jist  like  'em.  Then  I'll  carry  these  fine  fix 
ings  to  the  one  they  b'long  to.  Come,  now,  no  blubbering. 
Strip  off,  I  tell  yer." 

As  she  spoke,  she  twirled  the  little  girl  round,  and  began 
to  pull  open  the  buttons  of  her  dress.  In  doing  this,  her  at 
tention  was  attracted  by  the  bracelet  looping  up  the  right 
sleeve  ;  'Toinette  having,  it  will  be  remembered,  pulled  off 
the  other,  ai^d  left  it  at  home. 

"Hi,  hi!  What  sort  o' gimcrack  you  got  here?"  ex 
claimed  she,  pulling  at  it,  until,  as  'Toinette  had  done  with 
the  other,  she  broke  the  links  between  two  of  the  cameos, 
without  unclasping  the  bracelet. 


MOTHER    WINCH.  45 

u  Hi !  that's  pooty  !  Now,  what  a  young  wretch  you  bo 
for  to  go  and  say  that  ere's  yourn  ! "  added  she  severely,  as 
she  held  the  trinket  out  of  reach  of  the  little  girl,  who 
eagerly  cried,  — 

"  It  is,  it  is  mine  !  Papa  gave  me  both  of  them,  'cause 
it's  my  birthday.  They're  my  bracelets  ;  only  mamma  said 
I  was  too  little  to  wear  them  on  my  arms  like  she  does, 
and  she  tied  up  my  sleeves  with  them." 

"  Where's  t'other  one,  then?" 

u  It's  at  home.  I  pulled  it  off  'cause  I  was  going  to  be 
like  Merry,  that  weared  a  sun-bonnet,  and  didn't  have  any 
bracelets." 

"  Sun-bonnet !  What  d'ye  want  of  a  sun-bonnet,  weather 
like  this?  I'll  give  you  my  old  hood  ;  that's  more  like  it,  I 
reckon,"  replied  the  hag,  amused,  in  spite  of  herself,  by  the 
prattle  of  the  child.  'Toinette  hesitated. 

"  No,"  said  she  at  last:  "I  guess  you'd  better  give  me 
my  own  very  clo'ses,  and  carry  me  home.  Then  mamma 
will  give  me  a  gingham  dress  and  a  sun-bonnet ;  and  maybe 
she'll  give  you  my  pretty  things,  if  you  want  them." 

u  Thanky  for  nothing,  miss.  I  reckon  it'll  be  a  saving 
of  trouble  to  take  'em  now.  I  don't  b'lieve  a  word  about 
your  ma'am  giving  'em  to  you ;  and,  more'n  all,  I  don't 
b'lieve  you've  got  no  ma'am." 


4G  MOTHER  WINCH. 

So  saying,  she  rudely  stripped  off,  first  the  dress,  then  the 
underclothes,  and  finally  even  the  stockings  and  pretty 
gaiter-boots  ;  so  that  the  poor  child,  frightened,  ashamed, 
and  angry,  stood  at  last  with  no  covering  but  the  long  ring 
lets  of  her  golden  hair,  which,  as  she,  sobbing,  hid  her  face 
in  Lor  hands,  fell  about  her  like  a  veil. 

Leaving  her  thus,  the  old  woman  rummaged  for  a  tew 
moments  in  a  heap  of  clothes  thrown  into  the  corner  of  the 
room,  —  the  result,  apparently,  of  many  a  clay's  begging  or 
theft.  From  them  she  presently  produced  a  child's  night 
gown,  petticoat,  and  woollen  skirt,  a  pair  of  coarse  shoes 
much  worn,  and  an  old  plaid  shawl :  with  these  she  ap 
proached  'Toiuette. 

u  See  !  I've  got  your  own  clo'es  here  all  ready  for  you. 
Ain't  I  good?" 

"  They  ain't  my  clothes  :  I  won't  have  'em  on.  Go  away, 
you  naughty  lady,  you  ain't  good  a  bit ! "  screamed  'Toinette, 
passionately  striking  at  the  clothes  and  the  hand  that  held 
them. 

"  Come,  come,  miss,  none  o'  them  airs !  Take  that, 
now,  and  mend  your  manners  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  woman, 
with  a  blow  upon  the  bare  white  shoulder,  which  left  the 
print  of  all  her  horny  fingers.  It  was  the  first  time  in  all 


MOTHER    WINCH.  47 

her  lii'e  that  'Toinette  had  been  struck  ;  and  the  blood  rushed 
into  her  face,  and  then  away,  leaving  her  as  white  as  mar 
ble.  She  cried  no  more,  but,  fixing  her  eyes  upon  the  i'ace 
of  the  old  woman,  said  solemnly, — 

"  Now  the  Lord  doesn't  love  you.  Did  you  know  it  was 
the  1>"  n  :-<ts  that  made  you  strike  me?  Mamma  said  so 
when  I  struck  Susan." 

"  Shut  up  !  I  don't  want  none  of  your  preaching,  miss," 
replied  the  woman  angrily.  "  Here,  put  on  these  duds 
about  the  quickest,  or  I'll  give  you  worse  than  that.  Lor, 
what  a  mess  of  hair!  What's  the  good  on't?  Maybe, 
though,  they'd  give  some'at  for  it  to  the  store." 

She  took  a  large  pair  of  shears  from  the  table-drawer  as 
she  spoke,  and,  grasping  the  shining  curls  in  her  left  hand, 
rapidly  snipped  them  from  the  head,  leaving  it  rough, 
tangled,  and  hardly  to  be  recognized. 

'Toinette  no  longer  resisted,  or  even  cried.  The  blow  of 
that  rough  hand  seemed  to  have  stunned  or  stupefied  her, 
and  she  stood  perfectly  quiet,  her  face  pale,  her  eyes  fixed, 
and  her  trembling  lips  a  little  apart ;  while  the  old  woman, 
after  laying  the  handful  of  curls  carefully  aside,  dragged  on 
the  clothes  she  had  selected,  in  place  of  those  she  was  steal 
ing,  and  finished  by  tying  the  plaid  shawl  around  the  child's 


48  MOTHER   WINCH. 

shoulders,  fastening  it  in  a  great  knot  behind,  and  placing 
a  dirty  old  hood  upon  the  shorn  head. 

u  There,  now,  you'll  do,  I  guess  ;  and  we'll  go  take  you 
borne  :  only  mind  you  don't  speak  a  word  to  man,  woman, 
nor  child,  as  we  go  ;  for,  if  you  do,  I'll  fetch  you  right  back 
here,  and  shut  you  up  with  Old  Bogy  in  that  closet." 

So  saying,  she  bundled  up  'Toinette's  own  clothes,  slipped 
the  bracelet  into  her  pocket,  then,  with  the  parcel  in  one 
hand,  grasped  the  child's  arm  with  the  other,  and  led  her 
out  into  the  street. 

u  Will  you  really  take  me  home?"  asked  'Toinette 
piteously,  as  they  climbed  the  broken  steps  leading  from 
the  cellar  to  the  pavement. 

"There,  now!  What  did  I  tell  yer?"  exclaimed  the 
woman  angrily,  and  turning  as  if  to  go  back.  "  Now 
come  along,  and  I  will  give  you  to  Old  Bogy." 

"  No,  no  !  oh,  please,  don't !  I  will  be  good.  I  won't  say 
a  word  any  more.  I  forgotten  that  time,  I  did  ;  "  and  the 
limid  child,  pale  arid  trembling,  clung  to  the  wretch  beside 
her  as  if  she  had  been  her  dearest  friend. 

"  Well,  then,  don't  go  into  fits,  and  I'll  let  you  off  this 
time  :  but  see  that  you  don't  open  your  head  agin,  or  it'll 
be  all  up  with  yer." 


MOTHER   WINCH.  49 

"  Yes'm,"  said  the  poor  child  submissively;  and,  taking 
her  once  more  by  the  hand,  the  old  woman  led  her  rapidly 
along  the  lilthy  street,  now  entirely  dark  except  for  the  gas 
lights,  and  more  strange  to  'Toinette's  eyes  than  Fairy-land 
would  have  been.  As  they  turned  the  corner,  a  tall,  broad- 
shouldered  man,  dressed  in  a  blue  coat  with  brass  buttons, 
and  a  glazed  cap,  who  stood  leaning  against  the  wall,  looked 
sharply  at  them,  and  called  out,  — 

"  Hullo,  Mother  Winch  !     What's  up  to-night  ?  " 

"•Nothing,  yer  honor,  —  nothing  at  all.  Me  and  little 
Biddy  Mahoney's  going  to  leave  some  duds  at  the  pawn 
broker's  for  her  mother,  who's  most  dead  with  the  fever." 

"  Well,  well,  go  along ;  only  look  out  you  carry  no  more 
than  you  honestly  come  by,"  said  the  policeman,  walking 
leisurely  up  the  street. 

Mother  Winch  turned  in  the  opposite  direction,  and,  still 
tightly  grasping  'Toinette's  arm,  led  her  through  one  street 
after  another,  until,  tired  and  bewildered,  the  poor  child 
clung  with  half-closed  eyes  to  the  filthy  skirts  of  the  old 
woman,  and  stumbled  along,  neither  seeing  nor  knowing 
which  way  they  went. 

"  Hold  up,  can't  ye,  gal !  "  exclaimed  Mother  Winch,  as 
the  child  tripped,  and  nearly  fell.  "  Or,  if  you're:  so 
4 


50  MOTHER   WINCH. 

tired  as  all  that,  set  down  on  that  door-stone,  and  wait 
for  me  a  minute."  Pushing  her  down  upon  the  step  as 
she  spoke,  Mother  Winch  hurried  away  so  fast,  that, 
be  lore  'Toinette's  tired  little  brain  could  fairly  under 
stand  what  was  said,  she  found  herself  alone,  with  no 
creature  in  sight  all  up  and  down  the  narrow  street,  except 
a  cross-looking  dog  walking  slowly  along  the  pavement  to 
ward  her.  For  one  moment,  she  sat  wondering  what  she 
had  better  do  ;  and  then,  as  the  cross-looking  dog  fixed  his 
eyes  upon  her  with  a  sullen  growl,  she  started  to  her  feet, 
and  ran  as  fast  as  she  could  in  the  direction  taken  by  Mother 
Winch.  Just  at  the  corner  of  the  alley,  something  glitter 
ing  upon  the  sidewalk  attracted  her  attention  ;  and,  stooping 
to  pick  it  up,  she  uttered  a  little  cry  of  surprise  and  pleasure. 
It  was  her  own  coral  bracelet,  which  had  travelled  round 
in  Mother  Winch's  pocket  until  it  came  to  a  hole  in  the 
bottom,  and  quietly  slipping  out,  and  down  her  skirts  to  the 
pavement,  lay  waiting  for  its  little  mistress  to  pick  it  up. 

'Toinette  kissed  it  again  and  again,  not  because  it  was  a 
bracelet,  but  because  her  father  had  given  it  to  her  ;  and  it 
seemed  somehow  to  take  her  back  a  little  way  toward  him 
and  home.  It  must  have  been  this  she  meant,  in  saying  as 
she  did,  — 


MOTHER   WINCH.  51 

"  I  guess  you  have  come  after  me,  pretty  bracelet,  hasn't 
you  ?  and  we'll  go  home  together." 

And  so,  hugging  the  toy  as  close  to  her  heart  a 3  she 
would  have  liked  herself  to  be  hugged  to  her  mother's  heart, 
'Toinette  wandered  on  and  on  through  the  dark  and  lonely 
streets,  her  little  face  growing  paler  and  paler,  her  little 
feet  more  and  more  weary,  her  heart  swelling  fuller  and 
fuller  with  fright  and  desolation  ;  until  at  last,  stopping  sud 
denly,  she  looked  up  at  the  sky,  all  alive  now  with  the 
crowding  stars,  and  with  a  great  sob  whispered,  — 

"  Pretty  stars,  please  tell  God  I'm  lost.  I  think  he 
doesn't  know  about  it,  or  he'd  send  me  home." 

And  then,  as  the  wild  sob  brought  another  and  another, 
'Toinette  sank  down  in  the  doorway  of  a  deserted  house, 
and,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  cried  as  she  had 
never  cried  in  all  her  little  life. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

TEDDY'S   LITTLE   SISTER. 

"  THERE,  honey  ! "  said  Mrs.  Ginniss,  giving  the  last 
rub  to  the  shirt-bosom  she  was  polishing,  and  setting  her 
flat-iron  back  on  the  stove  with  a  smack,  —  "  there,  honey ; 
and  I  couldn't  have  done  better  by  that  buzzum  if  ye'd 
been  the  Prisidiut." 

Mrs.  Ginuiss  was  alone,  so  that  one  might  at  first  have 
been  a  little  puzzled  to  know  whom  she  addressed  as 
u  honey ;  "  but  as  she  continued  to  talk  while  unfolding 
another  shirt,  and  laying  it  upon  her  ironing-board,  it  be 
came  evident  that  she  was  addressing  the  absent  owner  of 
the  garments. 

"  And  sure  it's  many  a  maner  man  they've  made  their 
pri  si  dints  out  on,  and  sorra  a  better  one  they'd  find  betune 
here  and  Canady.  It's  yees  that  have  the  free  hand  and 
the  kind  way  wid  yees,  for  all  your  grand  looks.  The  good 
Lord  save  and  keep  ye  all  the  days  of  yer  life  !  " 

A  wrinkle  in  the  wristband  here  absorbed  the  attention 

52 


TEDDY'S  LITTLE  SISTER.  53 

of  the  laundress  ;  and,  while  smoothing  it  out,  she  forgot  to 
continue  what  she  had  heen  saying,  but,  as  she  once  more 
ironed  briskly  upon  the  sleeve,  began  upon  a  new  subject. 

"And  it's  late  ye're  agin,  Teddy  Ginniss,  bad 'cess  to 
yees  !  And  thin  it's  mesilf  that  should  take  shame  for 
saying  it ;  for  niver  a  b'y  of  them  all  is  so  good  to  his  ould 
mother,  and  niver  a  one  of  'ein  all  that  his  mother's  got  so 
good  a  right  to  be  proud  on,  as  Ted.  But  where  is  the 
cratur?  His  supper's  cowld  as  charity  wid  stannin." 

At  this  moment  a  heavy  step  was  heard  upon  the  stairs, 
as  of  some  one  climbing  slowly  up  with  a  heavy  burden  in 
his  arms.  Mrs.  Ginniss  paused  to  listen,  holding  the  iron 
suspended  over  the  collar  she  had  just  smoothed  ready 
for  it, 

"  Murther  an'  all ! "  muttered  she.  "  And  what's  the 
crather  got  wid  him  anyhow?  Shure  an  it's  him;  for,  if 
it  wor  Jovarny  with  his  orgin,  he'd  ha'  stopped  below." 

The  heavy  steps  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs  as  she  spoke, 
and  clumped  along  the  narrow  passage  to  the  door  of  Mrs. 
Ginniss's  garret.  She  was  already  holding  it  open. 

"  Teddy,  b'y,  an'  is  it  yersilf  ? "  asked  she,  peering  out 
into  the  darkness. 

wk  Yes,  mother,  its  meself,"  panted  a  boy's  voice,  as  a 


54 

stout  young  fellow,  about  fifteen  years  old,  staggered  into 
the  room,  and  sank  upon  a  chair. 

"  Saints  an'  angels,  child !  and  what  have  ye  got  there?" 
exclaimed  his  mother,  bending  over  the  something  that 
filled  Teddy's  arms  and  lap. 

"  It's  a  little  girl,  mother  ;  and  I'm  feared  she's  dead  ! " 
panted  Teddy. 

UA  little  girl,  an*  she's  dead!  Oh,  wurra,  wurra, 
Teddy  Ginniss,  that  iver  I  should  be  own  mother  to  a 
murtherer  !  An'  is  it  yersilf  that  kilt  the  purty  darliut?" 

"  Meself,  mother ! "  exclaimed  the  boy  indignantly. 
"  Sure  and  it  wasn't ;  and  I  wouldn't  'a  thought  you'd  have 
needed  to  ask.  I  found  her  on  a  doorstep  in  Tanner's 
Court :  and  first  I  thought  she  was  asleep,  and  so  I  shook 
her  to  tell  her  to  go  home  before  the  Charley  got  her  ;  and 
then,  when  she  wouldn't  wake  up,  I  saw  she  was  either 
fainted  or  dead  ;  and  I  fetched  her  home  to  you,  —  and  it's 
you  that  go  for  to  call  me  a  murtherer  !  Oh,  oh  !  " 

As  he  uttered  these  last  sounds,  the  boy's  wide  mouth 
puckered  up  in  a  comical  look  of  distress,  and  he  rubbed 
the  cuff  of  his  jacket  across  his  blinking  eyes.  Mrs.  Gin- 
niss  gave  him  a  slap  on  the  shoulder,  intended  to  be  playful, 
but  actually  heavy  enough  to  have  thrown  a  slighter  person 
out  of  the  chair. 


TEDDY'S  LITTLE  SISTER  55 

"  Whisht,  honey,  whisht !  "  said  she.  "  And  it's  an  ould 
fool  I  am  wid  me  fancies  an'  me  frights.  But  let  us  look 
at  the  poor  little  crather  ye've  brought  home  to  me.  Sure 
and  it  was  like  yees,  Teddy,  b'y." 

As  she  spoke,  she  took  from  Teddy's  arms  the  little  life 
less  form,  with  its  pale,  still  face,  and  laid  it  gently  upon 
her  own  bed. 

"  Oh,  thin  !  an'  it's  a  shame  to  see  the  purty  darlint  lay 
like  that ;  and  I'm  'feared,  unless  the  breath's  in  her  yet,  she's 
dead  intirely,"  muttered  the  good  woman,  rubbing  the  little 
hands  in  her  own,  and  gently  feeling  for  the  beating  of  the 
heart. 

u  Maybe  it's  only  the  cold  and  the  hunger  that's  ailing 
her,  and  she'll  come  to  with  the  fire  and  vittels.  She  cau 
have  my  supper  and  my  breakfast  too,  and  a  welcome  With 
it,"  said  Teddy  eagerly. 

"  The  cowld,  maybe,  it  is  ;  for  her  clothes  is  nixt  to  noth 
ing,  an'  the  flesh  of  her's  like  a  stone  wid  the  freezing :  but 
she's  got  enough  to  ate,  or  she  never'd  be  so  round  an' 
plump.  It's  like  she's  the  child  of  some  beggar-woman 
that's  fed  her  on  broken  vittels,  an',  whin  she  got  tired  ov 
trampin'  wid  her,  jist  dropped  her  on  the  doorstep  where 
yees  got  her.  —  Howly  mother  !  what's  this  ?  " 


56  TEDDY'S  LITTLE  SISTER. 

Mrs.  Ginniss,  as  she  spoke,  had  taken  the  liule  lifeless 
form  upon  her  lap  close  to  the  stove,  and  was  undressing  it, 
when,  among  the  folds  of  the  old  shawl  crossed  over  the 
bosom,  she  found  a  bracelet  of  coral  cameos,  set  in  gold,  and 
fastened  with  a  handsome  clasp. 

She  held  it  up,  stared  at  it  a  moment,  and  then  looked 
anxiously  at  Teddy. 

"  An'  where  did  this  splindid  armlit  come  from,  Teddy 
Ginniss?"  asked  she  sharply. 

"  Sorra  a  bit  of  me  knows,  thin  ;  an'  is  it  a  thafe  ye'll  be 
callin'  me  as  well  as  a  murtherer ! "  exclaimed  the  boy, 
falling,  in  his  agitation,  into  the  Irish  brogue  he  was  gener 
ally  so  careful  to  avoid. 

"  Whisht,  ye  spalpeen !  an*  lave  it  on  the  mantletry  till 
we  see  if  the  breath's  in  her  yit.  Sure  an'  sich  a  little 
crather  niver  could  have  stole  it." 

Teddy,  with  an  air  of  dignified  resentment,  took  the 
bracelet  from  his  mother's  hand,  and  laid  it  upon  the  rnan- 
tlepiece  ;  while  Mrs.  Ginniss,  with  a  troubled  look  upon  her 
broad  face,  finished  stripping  the  little  form,  and  began 
rubbing  it  all  over  with  her  warm  hands. 

"  Power  some  warm  wather  into  the  biggest  wash-tub, 
Teddy,  an'  I'll  thry  puttin'  her  in  it.  It's  what  the  Yankee 


TEDDY'S  LITTLE  SISTER.  57 

doctor  ?ii\(i  to  do  wid  yees,  whin  yees  had  fits  ;  an'  it  niver 
did  no  harm,  anyways." 

"  Is  it  a  fit  she's  got?"  asked  Teddy,  with  a  look  of  awe 
upon  his  face. 

u  The  good  Lord  knows  what's  she's  got,  or  who  she  is. 
Mabbe  the  good  folk  put  her  where  yees  got  her.  Niver  a 
beggar-brat  before  had  a  skin  so  satin-smooth,  an'  hands  an' 
feet  like  rose-leaves  and  milk.  An'  look  how  clane  she  is 
from  head  to  heel !  Niver  a  corpse  ready  for  the  wakin' 
was  uater." 

"  The  water's  ready  now,"  said  Teddy,  pushing  the  tub 
close  to  his  mother's  side,  and  then  walking  away  to  the 
window.  For  some  moments,  the  gentle  plashing  of  the 
water  was  the  only  sound  he  heard ;  but  then  his  mother 
hastily  exclaimed,  — 

"  Glory  be  to  God  an'  to  his  saints  !  The  purty  crather's 
alive,  and  lookin'  at  me  wid  the  two  blue  eyes  av  her  like 
a  little  angel !  Han'  me  the  big  tow'l  till  I  rub  her  dhry." 

Teddy  ran  with  the  towel ;  and  as  his  mother  hastily 
wrapped  her  little  charge  in  her  apron,  and  reseated  her 
self  before  the  fire,  he  caught  sight  of  two  great  bright 
eyes  staring  up  at  him,  and  joyfully  cried,  — 

"  She's  alive,  she's  alive  !  and  she'll  be  my  little  sister, 
and  uo'Il  keep  her  always,  \von't  we,  mother?" 


58  TEDDY'S  LITTLE  SISTER. 

"  Wait,  thin,  till  we  see  if  it's  here  she  is  iu  the  morning," 
said  his  mother  mysteriously. 

"And  where  else  would  she  be,  if  not  here?"  asked 
Teddy  in  surprise. 

"If  it  war  the  good  folks  *  that  browt  her,  it's  they  that 
will  fetch  her  away  agin  'fore  the  daylight.  Wait  till 
mornin',  Teddy  darlint." 

But,  in  spite  of  her  suspicions,  Mrs.  Ginniss  did  all  for 
the  little  stranger  that  she  could  have  done  for  her  own 
child,  even  to  heating  and  giving  to  her  the  cupful  of  milk 
reserved  for  her  own  "  tay"  during  the  next  day,  and  warm 
ing  her  in  her  own  bosom  all  through  the  long,  cold  night. 

*  Meaning  the  fairies,  whom  the  Irish  people  call  by  this  name. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

THE    FAYVEK. 

"  AND  is  she  here,  mother  ?  "  asked  Teddy,  rushing  into 
his  mother's  room  next  morning  as  soon  as  there  was  light 
enough  to  see. 

"  Yis,  b'y,  she's  here  ;  but  it's  not  long  she'll  be,  savin' 
the  mercy  o'  God.  It's  the  heavy  sickness  that's  on  her 
the  morn." 

"  And  will  she  die,  mother?" 

"  The  good  Lord  knows,  not  the  likes  of  me,  Teddy  dar- 
lint." 

"  And  you'll  keep  her,  and  do  for  her,  mother,  won't 
you  ?  "  asked  the  boy  anxiously. 

"  Sure  and  it  wouldn't  be  Judy  Ginniss  that'd  turn  out 
a  dying  child,  let  alone  sending  her  to  tl  e  poor'us.  Tiiim 
that  sint  her  to  us  will  sind  us  the  manes  to  kape  her,"  said 
the  Irish  woman  confidently  ;  and  leaving  her  little  moan 
ing,  feverish  charge  dozing  uneasily,  she  rose,  and  went 
about  the  labors  of  the  day. 

59 


60  THE    FAYVER. 

c'  Here's  the  masther's  shirts  done,  Teddy  ;  and  ye'd  bet- 
ther  take  thim  to  his  lodgings  before  yees  go  to  the  office. 
More  by  token,  it's  him  as  u'd  tell  us  what  we'd  ought  to 
be  doin'  wid  the  darlint,  if  she  lives,  or  if  she  dies.  Tell 
the  masther  all  ye  know  uv  her,  Teddy  ;  an'  ax  him  to  set 
us  sthraight." 

"  No,  no,  mother  !  "  exclaimed  Teddy  eagerly  ;  "  I'll  be 
doing  no  such  thing :  for  it's  ourselves  wants  her,  and  any 
thing  the  master  would  say  would  take  her  away  from  us. 
Sure  and  how  often  I've  said  I'd  give  all  ever  I  had  for  a 
little  sister  to  be  my  own,  and  love  me,  and  go  Avalking 
with  me,  and  be  took  care  by  me ;  and,  now  one  is  sent,  if 
it's  the  good  folks  or  if  it's  the  good  God  sent  her,  I'm 
going  to  keep  her  all  myself.  Sure,  mother,  you'll  never  be 
crossing  me  in  this,  when  it's  yourself  never  crossed  me 
yet ;  and  more  by  token,  it'll  keep  me  out  of  the  streets, 
and  such." 

"  Thrue  for  ye,  Teddy ;  though  it's  you  was  alluz  the 
good  b'y  to  shtop  at  home,  an'  niver  ax  fur  coompany  saviu' 
yer  poor  o\vld  mother,"  said  the  washerwoman,  looking 
fondly  at  her  son. 

"  And  you'll  keep  the  child,  and  say  nothing  to  nobody 
but  she's  our  own ;  won't  you,  mother?"  persisted  Toady. 


THE   FAYVER.  61 

"  Yis,  b'y,  if  it's  yer  heart  is  set  on  it." 

"  It  is  that,  mother ;  and  you're  the  good  mother,  and  it's 
I  always  knowed,  I  mean  knew  it.  And  will  I  bring  home 
a  doctor  to  the  little  sister?" 

"  No,  Teddy  ;  not  yit.  Faix,  an*  it's  hard  enough  to  live 
when  we're  well ;  but  it's  too  poor  intirely  we  are  to  be 
sick.  Whin  the  time  cooms  to  die,  it's  no  doctherin'  '11 
kape  us." 

Teddy  looked  wistfully  at  the  little  burning  face  upon  the 
coarse,  clean  pillow  :  but  he  knew  that  what  his  mother  said 
was  true  ;  and,  without  reply,  he  took  up  the  parcel  of 
clothes,  and  left  the  room. 

All  through  the  long  day,  Mrs.  Ginniss,  toiling  at  her 
wash-tubs,  found  a  moment  here  and  another  there  to  sit 
upon  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and  smooth  her  little  patient's 
hair,  or  moisten  her  glowing  lips  and  burning  forehead, 
trying  at  intervals  to  induce  her  to  speak,  if  even  but  one 
word,  in  answer  to  her  tender  inquiries  ;  but  all  in  vain  :  for 
the  child  already  lay  in  the  stupor  preceding  the  delirium 
of  a  violent  fever,  and  an  occasional  moan  or  sigh  was  the 
only  Bound  that  escaped  her  lips. 

Toward  night,  Teddy,  returning  home  an  hour  earlier 
than  usual,  came  bounding  up  the  stairs,  two  at  a  time, 
but,  pausing  ;it  the  door,  entered  as  sofllv  a/:  a  cnt. 


62  THE    FAYVEK. 

"  How  is  the  little  sister  now,  mother?"  asked  he 
anxiously. 

"Purty  nigh  as  bad  as  bad  can  be,  Teddy,"  said  his 
mother  sorrowfully,  standing  aside  as  she  spoke  that  the 
boy  might  see  the  burning  face,  dull,  half-closed  eyes,  and 
blackening  lips  of  the  sick  child,  and  touch  the  little  hands 
feebly  plucking  at  the  blanket  with  fingers  that  seemed  to 
scorch  the  boy's  healthy  skin  as  he  closed  them  in  his 
palm. 

Teddy  looked  long  and  earnestly,  —  looked  up  at  his 
mother's  sad  face,  and  down  again  at  the  "  little  sister  " 
whom  he  had  taken  to  his  heart  when  he  first  took  her  to 
his  arms ;  and  then,  shutting  his  lips  close  together,  and 
swallowing  hard  to  keep  down  the  great  sob  that  seemed 
like  to  strangle  him,  he  turned,  and  rushed  out  of  the  room. 
Mrs.  Ginniss  looked  after  him,  and  wiped  her  eyes. 

"  It's  the  luvin'  heart  he  has,  the  crather,"  murmured 
she.  "An'  if  the  babby  wor  his  own  sisther,  it's  no  more 
he  could  care  for  her.  Sure  an'  if  the  Lord  spares  her  to 
us,  it's  Teddy's  sisther  she  shall  be,  forever  an'  aye,  while 
me  two  fists  hoold  out  to  work  fer  'em." 

An  hour  later,  Teddy  returned,  conducting  a  stranger. 
Hushing  into  the  room  before  him,  the  boy  threw  his  arms 


THE    FAYVER.  63 

around  bis  mother's  neck,  and  whispered  hastily,  in  his 
broadest  brogue,  — 

u  It's  a  docther  ;  an'  he'll  cure  the  sisther  ;  an*  it's  not  a 
cint  he'll  be  afther  axin'  us :  but  don't  let  on  that  she's  not 
s»ur  own." 

Mrs.  Ginniss  rose,  and  courtesied  to  the  young  man,  who 
now  followed  Teddy  into  the  room,  saying  pleasantly,  — 

"  Good-evening,  ma'am.  I  am  Dr.  Wentworth  ;  and  I 
came  to  see  your  little  girl  by  request  of  Teddy  here,  who 
said  you  would  like  a  doctor  if  you  could  have  one  without 
paying  him." 

Mrs.  Ginniss  courtesied  again,  but  with  rather  a  wrath 
ful  look  at  Teddy,  as  she  said,  — 

"  And  it's  sorry  I  am  the  b'y  should  be  afther  beggin' 
of  yees.  docther.  I  thought  he'd  more  sinse  than  to  be  axin* 
yees  to  give  away  yer  time,  that's  as  good  as  money  to  yees." 

u  But  my  time  is  not  as  good  as  money  by  any  means," 
said  Dr.  Wentworth,  laughing  as  he  took  off  his  hat  and 
<joat ;  u  for  I  have  very  little  to  do  except  to  attend  patients 
who  cannot  give  more  than  their  thanks  in  payment. 
That  is  the  way  we  young  doctors  begin." 

"An'  is  that  so  indade !  Sure  an'  'Meriky's  the  place 
fur  poor  folks  quite  an'  intirely,"  said  Mrs.  Giuuiss  admir- 
iSglv. 


64  THE    FAVVER. 

"  For  some  sorts  of  poor  people,  and  not  for  others.  Un 
fortunately,  bakers,  butchers,  and  tailors  do  not  practise 
gratuitously  ;  so  we  poor  doctors,  lawyers,  and  parsons  have 
to  play  give  without  take,"  said  the  young  man,  warming 
his  hands  a  moment  over  the  cooking-stove. 

"  An'  sure  it  was  out  of  a  Protistint  Bible  that  I  heard 
wonst,  c  Him  as  gives  to  the  poor  linds  to  the  Lord : '  so,  in 
the  ind,  it's  yees  that'll  come  in  wid  your  pockets  full,  if 
ye  bclave  yer  own  Scripter,"  said  Mrs.  G-inuiss  shrewdly. 

The  young  doctor  gave  her  a  sharp  glance  out  of  his 
merry  brown  eyes,  but  only  answered,  as  he  walked  on  to 
the  bedside,  — 

u  You  have  it  there,  my  friend." 

For  several  moments,  there  was  silence  in  the  little  room 
while  Dr.  Wentworth  felt  his  patient's  pulse,  looked  at 
her  tongue,  examined  her  eyes,  and  passed  his  hand  over 
the  burning  skin. 

"  H'm  !  Typhoid,  without  doubt,"  said  he  to  himself,  and 
then  to  Mrs.  Ginniss,  — 

u  Can  you  tell  the  probable  cause  of  the  child's  illness, 
ma'am?  Has  she  been  exposed  to  any  sudden  chill,  or  any 
long-continued  cold  or  fatigue?" 

Mrs.  Giunias  was  about  to  reply  by  telling  all  she  knew 


THE    FAYVER.  G.~) 

or  the  little  stranger  ;  but  catching  Teddy's  inploririg  look, 
and  the  gesture  with  which  he  seemed  to  beg  her  to  keep 
the  secret  of' his  "little  sister's"  sudden  adoption,  she  only 
answered,  — 

*•'•  Sure  an'  it's  the  cowld  she  took  last  night  but  one  is 
workiu'  in  her.'* 

"  She  took  cold  night  before  last?  How  was  it?"  pur 
sued  the  doctor. 

"  She  was  out  late  in  the  street,  sure,  an'  the  clot  lies 
she'd  got  wasn't  warm  enough,"  said  the  washwoman,  her 
eyes  still  fixed  on  Teddy,  who,  from  behind  the  doctor,  was 
making  every  imploring  gesture  he  could  invent  to  prevent 
her  from  telling  the  whole  truth.  The  doctor  did  not  fail 
to  notice  the  hesitation  and  embarrassment  of  the  woman's 
manner,  but  remembering  what  Teddy  had  told  him  of  his 
mother's  poverty,  and  her  own  little  betrayal  of  pride  when 
he  first  entered,  naturally  concluded  that  she  was  annoyed 
at  having  to  say  that  the  child  had  been  sent  into  the  street 
without  proper  clothing,  and  forbore  to  press  the  question. 

Ah  Teddy  and  Teddy's  mother !  if  you  had  loved  the 
truth  as  well  as  you  loved  little  lost  'Toinette,  how  much 
suffering,  anxiety,  and  anguish  you  would  have  saved  to 
her  and  her's  ! 

5 


THE    FAYVER. 


But  the  doctor  asked  no  more  questions,  except  such  as 
Mrs.  Ginniss  could  answer  without  hesitation  ;  and  pretty 
soon  went  away,  promising  to  come  again  next  clay,  and 
taking  Teddy  with  him  to  the  infirmary  where  medicine  is 
furnished  without  charge  to  those  unable  to  pay  for  it. 

Before  the  boy  returned,  'Toinette  had  passed  from  the 
stupid  to  the  delirious  stage  of  her  fever  ;  and  all  that  night, 
as  he  woke  or  dozed  in  his  little  closet  close  beside  his  moth 
er's  door,  poor  Teddy's  heart  ached  to  hear  the  wild  tones  of 
entreaty,  of  terror,  or  of  anger,  proving  to  his  mind  that 
the  delicate  child  he  already  loved  so  well  had  suffered 
much  and  deeply,  and  that  at  no  distant  period. 

Toward  morning,  he  dressed,  and  crept  into  his  mother's 
room.  The  washerwoman  sat  in  the  clothes  she  had  worn 
at  bed-time,  patiently  fanning  her  little  charge,  and,  half 
asleep  herself,  murmuring  constantly,  — 

"Ah  thin,  honey,  whisht,  whisht!  It's  no  thin'  shall 
harm  ye  now,  darlint !  Asy,  now,  asy,  mavourneen  !  Whisht, 
honey,  whisht !  " 

"  Lie  down  and  sleep,  mother,  and  let  me  sit  by  her," 
whispered  Teddy  in  his  mother's  ear ;  and,  with  a  nod,  the 
weary  woman  crept  across  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  was 
asleep  in  a  moment. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

THE   NIGHT-WATCH. 

TEDDY,  waving  the  old  palm-leaf  fan  up  an<3  down  with 
as  much  care  as  if  it  had  carried  the  breath  of  life  to  his 
poor  little  charge,  sat  for  some  time  very  quiet,  listening  to 
her  wild  prattle  without  trying  to  interrupt  it ;  until,  after 
lying  still  for  a  few  moments,  she  suddenly  fixed  her  eyes 
upon  him,  and  said,  — 

"  Oh  !  you're  Peter  Phinn,  sister  to  Merry  that  weared 
a  sun-bonnet,  ain't  you?" 

The  question  seemed  so  conscious  and  rational,  that 
Teddy  answered  eagerly, — 

"  No,  honey  ;  but  I'm  Teddy  Giuniss  ;  and  I'm  going  to 
be  your  brother  forever  and  always.  What's  your  name, 
sissy?" 

"  I'm  Finny  ;  no,  Fin  Cherrytoe,  —  I'm  Cherry  toe,  that 
dances.  Want  to  see  me  dance,  Peter?" 

As  she  spoke,  she  started  up,  and  would  have  jumped  out 
of  bed ;  but  Teddy  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm,  arid  paid 
soothingly,  —  67 


68  THE    NIGHT-WATCH. 

"  No,  no,  sissy  ;  not  now.  Another  day  you  shall  dance 
Tor  Teddy,  when  you're  all  well.  And  you  mustn't  call  me 
Peter,  'cause  I'm  Teddy." 

"  Teddy,  Teddy,"  repeated  'Toinette  vaguely,  and  then, 
with  a  sudden  shrill  laugh,  shouted,  — 

"  '  Taffy  was  a  Welshman,  Taffy  was  a  thief; 

Taffy  came  to  my  house  and  stole  a  piece  of  beef.' 

Guess  you're  Taffy,  ain't  you  ?  " 

u  No  :  I'm  Teddy.  I'm  your  brother  Teddy,"  repeated 
the  boy  patiently ;  and  then,  to  change  the  subject,  added 
coaxingly,  u  And  what's  the  pretty  name  you  called  your 
self,  darlint?" 

u  I'm  Cherrytoe,  —  Cherrytoe  that  dance?  so  pretty. 
Don't  you  hear,  you  great  naughty  lady?  —  Cherrytoe,  Cher 
rytoe,  Cherrytoe  !  " 

The  wild  scream  in  which  the  name  was  repeated  woke 
even  tired  Mrs.  Ginniss,  who  started  upright,  crying,  — 

"  What's  it,  what's  it,  Teddy?  Ochone  !  what  ails  the 
crather  ?  " 

"  It's  only  her  name  she's  telling,  mother ;  and  sure  it's 
a  pretty  one.  It's  Cherrytoe." 

"  And  what  sort  of  a  quare  name  is  that  for  a  christened 
child?  Sure  we'll  call  it  Cherry;  for  wunst  I  heerd  of  a 
lady  as  was  called  that  way,"  said  Mrs.  Ginniss. 


THE    NIGHT-WATCH.  69 

"  Yes,  we'll  call  her  Cherry,  little  sister  Cherry,"  said 
Teddy,  delighted  with  the  promise  implied  in  his  mother's 
words  of  keeping  the  child  for  her  own.  "  And,  mother./' 
added  he,  "  mind  you  don't  be  telling  the  doctor  nor  any 
one  that  she  ain't  your  own,  or  maybe  they'll  take  her  away 
to  the  'sylum  or  somewheres,  whether  we'd  like  it  or  not : 
and,  if  they  do,  I'll  run  off  to  sea  ;  I  will,  by  ginger  !  " 

"  Whisht,  thin,  with  your  naughty  words,  Teddy  Ginniss  ! 
Didn't  I  bate  ye  enough  whin  ye  wor  little  to  shtop  ye  from 
swearin'  ?  " 

u  Ginger  ain't  swearing,"  replied  Teddy  positively.  "  I 
asked  the  master  if  it  wor,  and  he  said  it  worn't." 

"  Faith,  thin,  and  he  says  it  hisself,  I'm  thinkin',"  half 
asked  the  mother,  with  a  shrewd  twinkle  of  her  gray  eyes. 
Teddy  faltered  and  blushed,  but  answered  manfully,  — 

"  No,  he  don't ;  and  he  said  it  was  low  and  vulgar  to  talk 
that  way  ;  and  I  don't,  only  by  times." 

"  Well,  thin,  Teddy,  see  that  yer  don't,  only  thim  times 
whin  yer  1  ears  the  masther  do  it  forninst  ye:  thin  it'll 
be  time  enough  for  ye.  And  don't  ye  be  forgettiu',  b'y,  that 
ye're  bound  to  be  a  giritlernan  afore  ye  die.  It  was  what 
yer  poor  daddy  said  when  yer  wor  born,  a  twelvemonth 
arter  we  landed  here.  u  There,  Judy,"  says  he,  "  there's  a 


70  THE    NIGHT-WATCH. 

native-born  'Merican  for  yees,  wid  as  good  a  right  to  be 
Prisidint  as  the  best  ov  'em.  Now,  don't  yer  let  him  grow 
up  a  Paddy,  wid  no  more  brains  nor  a  cow  or  a  horse. 
Make  a  gmtlemau,  an'  a  'Merican  gintleman,  of  the  spal 
peen  ;  an'  shtrike  hands  on  it  now." 

t4  '  Troth,  thin,  Michael  alanna,  an'  it's  a  bargain,'  says  I, 
an',  wake  as  I  wor,  give  him  me  fist  out  ov  the  bed  ;  an'  he 
shuk  it  hearty.  An',  though  Michael  died  afore  the  year  wor 
out,  the  promise  I'd  made  him  stood ;  an'  it's  more  ways 
than  iver  ye'll  know,  Teddy  Ginniss,  I've  turned  an'  twisted 
to  kape  ye  daceut,  an'  kape  ye  out  ov  the  streets,  niver  for- 
gittin'  for  one  minute  that  Michael  had  towld  me  there 
was  the  makin's  of  a  gmtleman  in  yees,  an'  that  he'd  left  it 
to  me  to  work  it  out." 

To  this  story,  familiar  as  it  was,  Teddy  listened  with  as 
much  attention  as  if  he  had  never  heard  it  before,  and,  when 
it  was  ended,  said,  — 

"And  tell  about  your  putting  me  to  the  squire,  mother." 

"  Yis,  b'y  ;  an'  that  wor  the  biggest  bit  of  loock  that  iver 
I  wor  in  yet.  Two  twelvemonth  ago  come  Christmas  it 
wor,  an'  iver  an'  always  I  had  been  thinkin'  what  'ud  I  do 
wid  ye  nixt,  when  Ann  Dolan  towld  me  how  her  slather's 
son  had  got  a  chance  wid  a  lawyer  to  clane  out  his  bit  ov 


THE    NIGHT-WATCH.  71 

an  office,  and  run  wid  arrants  an'  sich,  an'  wor  to  have  fifty 
dollars  a  year,  wid  the  chance  ov  larnin'  what  he  could  out 
ov  all  thim  big  books  as  does  be  in  sich  places.  Thin  it 
somehow  kim  inter  my  head  so  sudden  like,  that  it's  sar- 
tain  sure  I  am  it  was  Michael  come  out  ov  glory  to  whishper 
it  in  my  ear :  ;  There's  Misther  Booros'll  mebbe  do  as 
much  for  your  Teddy.'  I  niver  spoke  the  first  word  to  Ann 
Dolan,  but  lapped  my  shawl  about  me,  an'  wint  out  ov  her 
house  with  no  more  than,  '  God  save  ye,  Ann  ! '  an'  twenty 
minutes  later  I  wor  in  Misther  Booros's  office. 

"  '  Good-eveuin',  Mrs.  Ginniss,'  says  he,  as  gmteel  as  yer 
plaze.     'An'  how  is  yer  health?' 

"'Purty  good,  thank  ye  kindly,  sir,'  says  I;  «  an'  its 
hopin'  you  have  yours  the  same,  I  am/ 

"  '  Thank  you,  I  am  very  well ;  and  what  can  I  do  for  you 
this  evening?  Pray,  be  sated/  says  he,  laning  back  in  his 
chair  wid  sech  a  rale  good-natured  smile  on  the  handsome 
face  of  him,  that  I  says  to  myself,  '  It's  the  lucky  woman 
you  are,  Judy  Ginniss,  to  put  yer  b'y  wid  sech  a  dacent 
gintleman :  an'  I  smiled  to  him  agin,  an'  begun  to  the  be- 
giiinin',  and  towld  him  the  whole  story,  —  what  Michael  said 
to  me,  an'  what  I  said  to  Michael ;  an'  how  Mike  died  wid 
the  ikver  ;  an'  how  I'd  worked  an  'saved,  an'  wouldn't  marry 


72  THE    NIGHT-WATCH. 

Tom  Murphy  when  he  axed  me,  an'  all  so  as  I  could  kapo 
my  b'y  daceut,  an'  sind  him  to  the  school,  an'  give  him  hi 
hooks  an'  his  joggerphy-picters  "  — 

"  Them's  maps,  mother,"  interposed  Teddy. 

"  Niver  yer  mind,  b'y,  what  they  be.  Yer  had  'em  along 
wid  the  best  of  yer  schoolmates  ;  an'  so  I  towld  the  squire. 
'  An'  now,'  says  I,  '  he's  owld  enough  to  be  settliu'  to  a 
thrade  ;  an'  I  likes  the  lawyer  thrade  the  best,  an'  so  I've 
coom  to  git  yer  honor  td  take  him  'priiitice.' 

"At  that  he  stared  like  as  he'd  been  moonsthruck  ;  an' 
thin  he  laughed  a  little  to  hisself ;  and  thin  he  axed  mighty 
quite  like,  '  How  do  you  mane,  Mrs.  Ginniss?'  So  I  towld 
him  about  Ann  Dolan's  sisther's  son,  an'  what  wor  the 
chance  he'd  got ;  an'  thin  I  made  bowld  to  ax  him  would  he 
take  my  b'y  the  same  way,  on'y  I'd  like  he'd  larn  more,  an' 
I  wouldn't  mind  the  fifty  dollars  a  year,  but  'ud  kape  him 
mesilf,  as  I  had  kep'  him  since  his  daddy  died,  if  the  wuth 
uv  it  might  be  give  him  in  larnin'." 

"  And  what  did  the  master  say  to  that,  mother?"  asked 
Teddy,  with  a  bright  look  that  showed  he  foresaw  and  was 
pleased  with  the  answer. 

"  Sure  and  he  said  what  a  gintleman  the  likes  uv  him 
should  say,  and  said  with  his  own  hearty  smile  that's  as 
irood  ris  the  goold  dollar  uv  .another  man, — 


THE    NIGHT-WATCH.  73 

"  '  My  good  'oman,'  says  lie,  '  sind  along  your  b'y  as  soon 
as  you  plaze  ;  an'  if  he's  as  —  as '  —  what's  that  agin,  Teddy. 
darlint?" 

u  Arnberitious,"  pronounced  Teddy  with  a  grand  sort  of 
air,  "and  it  means,  he  told  me,  wanting  to  be  something 
more  than  you  wor  by  nater." 

"  Faith,  and  that's  it,  Teddy:  that's  the  very  moral  uv 
what  I  wants  to  see  in  yees.  Well,  the  masther  said  if 
the  b'y  was  as  amberitious  an'  as  'anest  as  his  mother  afore 
him  (that's  me,  yer  see,  Teddy),"  — 

"  Yes,  yes,  mother,  I  know.     Well?" 

"  That  he'd  make  a  man  uv  him  that  should  be  a  pride 
an'  a  support  to  the  owld  age  uv  me,  an'  a  blissin'  to  the 
day  I  med  up  my  mind  to  eddicate  him.  That  wor  two 
year  ago,  Teddy  Ginniss  ;  an',  so  far,  hasn'  the  giutleman 
done  by  yees  as  niver  yer  own  daddy  could  ?  Hasn'  he  put 
yees  to  the  readin'  an'  the  writin'  an'  the  joggerphy-pictersj 
an'  the  nate  figgers  that  yees  puts  on  me  washin'-bills,  till 
it's  proud  I  am  to  hand  'em  to  the  gintlefolks,  an'  say, 
c  If  ye  plaze,  the  figgers  is  pooty  plain.  It's  me  b'y  made 
'em '  ?  Now  till  me,  Teddy,  hasn'  the  shquire  done  all  this 
by  yees,  an'  give  yees  the  fifty  dollars  by  the  year,  all  the 
same  as  if  he  give  ye  iiothin'  else  ?  " 


T4  THE    NIGHT-WATCH. 

"  He  has  so,  mother." 

"  An'  whin  I  wanted  to  wash  for  him  widout  a  cint  uv 
charge,  an'  towld  him  it  was  jist  foon  to  rmshe  out  his  bit 
things,  bekase  he  is  that  good-natered  an'  quite  that  there's 
niver  the  fust  roobin'  to  do  to  'em,  he  says,  — 

u  '  An'  if  I  let  yees  do  'em  widout  charge,  I'd  as  lieve 
wear  the  shirt  of  Misther  Nessus  ; '  an'  more  by  token, 
Teddy  Ginuiss,  I  told  ye  iver  and  oft  to  look  in  the  big 
books  an'  see  who  was  Misther  Nessus,  an'  what  about 
his  shirt." 

"  Faith  and  ye  did,  mother ;  but  I  never  could  find  him 
yet.  Some  day  I'll  ask  the  master,"  said  Teddy  with  a 
puzzled  look. 

"  An'  so  he  pays  me  what  I  ax,  an*  it  isn'  for  the  likes 
uv  him  to  be  knowin'  what  the  others  ud  charge  ;  an',  whin 
he  gives  me  forty  cints  the  dozen,  he  thinks,  the  poor  in- 
nercint !  that  it's  mooch  as  I  would  ax  uv  any  one.  Now, 
Teddy  b'y,  isn'  all  I've  towld  ye  God's  truth  ?  and  haven't 
ye  heerd  it  as  many  times  as  yees  are  days  owld  out  uv 
yer  own  moother's  lips  ?  " 

"  Faith  and  I  have,  mother." 

"  An'  wud  yer  moother  till  yees  a  lie,  or  bid  yees  do  what 
wasn't  plazin'  to  God,  Teddy?" 


THE    NIGHT- WATCH.  40 

"  Sure  she  wouldn't;  and  I'll  lick  the  first  fellow  that'll 
say  she  would,  if  he  was  as  big  as  Goliah  in  the  Bible," 
said  Teddy,  doubling  up  his  fist,  and  nodding  fiercely. 

"  Thin,  Teddy  G-inniss,  we  cooms  to  this  ;  an'  it's  not  the 
first  time,  nor  yet  the  last,  we'll  coom  to  it.  If  iver  ye  can 
do  yer  masther  a  service,  be  it  big  or  be  it  little  ;  if  iver  the 
stringth,  or  the  coorage,  or  the  life  itself,  of  yees,  or  thim  as 
is  dear  to  yees,  ud  sarve  him  or  plaze  him,  —  I  bid  yees 
uow  to  give  it  him  free  an'  willin'  as  ye'd  give  it  to  God. 
An'  so  ye  mind  me,  it's  my  blissin'  an'  the  blissin'  uv  yer 
dead  father  that's  iver  wid  ye  ;  an'  so  ye  fail  me,  it's  the 
black  curse  uv  disobedience,  an'  yer  moother's  brukken 
heart,  that  shall  cling  to  yees  for  iver  and  iver,  while  life 
shall  last.  Do  ye  mind  that,  b'y  ?  " 

"  I  mind  it,  and  I'll  heed  it,  mother,  as  I've  promised 
you  before,"  said  Teddy  solemnly ;  and  mother  and  son 
exchanged  as  tender  and  as  true  a  kiss  as  young  Bayard 
and  his  lady-mother  could  have  done  when  she  gave  him  to 
be  a  knight  and  chevalier. 

All  through  this  long  conversation,  which  had  been  car 
ried  on  in  a  low  tone  of  voice,  and  frequently  interrupted 
when  it  seemed  to  disturb  her,  'Toinette  had  slept  feverishly 
and  restlessly  ;  but  as  the  washwoman  crept  away  to  begin 


76  THE    NIGHT-WATCH. 

her  daily  labors,  and  Teddy  lingered  for  a  moment  more  (o 
look  at  the  poor  little  sister  whose  beauty  was  to  him  an 
ever-new  delight,  her  great  blue  eyes  suddenly  opened,  and 
fixed  upon  him,  while  with  an  airy  little  laugh  she  said,  — 

u  We're  King  and  Queen  of  Merrigolund,  Peter  ;  isn't  we  ? 
Does  you  love  me,  Peter?" 

t;  I  couldn't  tell  how  well  I  love  you,  Cherry  dear ;  but 
it's  Teddy  I  am,  and  not  Peter,"  said  the  boy,  bashfully 
kissing  the  little  hot  hand  upon  the  outside  of  the  bed. 

To  his  dismay,  the  delirious  child  snatched  it  from  him 
with  a  wild  cry,  and  burst  into  a  storm  of  tears  and  sobs, 
crying,  — 

u  Go  away,  wicked  lady!  go  away,  I  say!  God  won't 
love  you  when  you  strike  me,  you  know.  He  won't :  my 
mamma  said  so.  Oh,  oh,  oh  !  " 

Her  cries  brought  Mrs.  Ginniss  to  her  side  in  a  moment, 
who,  tenderly  soothing  her,  turned  upon  Teddy. 

"  Bad  'cess  to  yees,  ye  spalpeen  !  An'  what  ud  ye  be  afther 
vexin'  her  for,  an'  her  in  a  faver?  What  did  yees  say  to 
her?" 

u  I  said  my  name  was  Teddy,  and  not  Peter ;  and  then 
she  said  I  was  a  lady,  and  struck  her,"  replied  the  boy, 
bewildered,  and  a  little  indignant. 


THE    NIGHT-WATCH.  ii 

''And  sure  ye'r  Peter  or  Paul,  or  Judas  hissilf,  if  so 
be  she  likes  to  call  ye  so  while  she's  this  way ;  au',  if  ye 
shtrike  her,  it's  the  weight  uv  my  fist  ye'll  feel ;  mind  that, 
young  man  !  — Whisht,  thin,  darlint !  asy,  mavourneen  !  " 

'Toinette,  hushed  upon  the  motherly  bosom  of  the  good 
woman,  soon  ceased  her  cries,  and  presently  fell  again  to 
sleep  ;  while  Teddy,  with  rather  an  injured  look  upon  his 
uncouth  face,  and  yet  pleased  to  see  the  little  sister  in  his 
mother's  arms,  crept  softly  from  the  room,  with  his  break 
fast  in  his  hand. 


CHAPTER    X 

THE    EMPTY   NEST. 

WHEN  Susan  returned  from  carrying  Bessie  Rider  home, 
she  was  quite  surprised  to  find  the  front-door  ajar,  as  she 
thought  she  had  been  sure  of  latching  it  in  going  out ;  but, 
without  stopping  to  make  any  inquiries  of  the  other  ser 
vants,  she  ran  up  the  back  stairs,  took  off  her  shawl  and 
hood,  and  then  went  to  the  drawing-room  for  'Toinette. 
The  room  was  empty ;  and  Susan  at  once  concluded  that 
Mrs.  Legrange  had  taken  the  child  to  her  own  chamber 
while  she  dressed  for  dinner,  as  'Toinette  often  begged  to 
be  present  at  this  ceremony,  and  was  often  indulged. 

"  I'll  just  redd  *  up  the  nursery  a  bit  before  I  fetch  her," 
said  Susan,  looking  round  the  littered  room ;  and  so  it  was 
half  an  hour  before  she  knocked  at  Mrs.  Legrange's  chamber- 
door  with,  "  I  came  for  Miss  'Toinette,  ma'am." 

"  Come  in,  Susan.    Miss  'Toinette,  did  you  say?    She  is 


*  Ready. 
78 


THE    EMPTY   NEST.  70 

down  in  the  drawing-room  by  herself,  and  you  had  better 
put  her  to  bed  at  once.  She  must  be  very  tired." 

Alas  !  the  tender  mother  little  guessed  how  tired  ! 

Without  reply,  Susan  closed  the  door,  and  ran  down 
stairs  ;  an  uneasy  feeling  creeping  over  her,  although  she 
would  not  yet  confess  it  even  to  herself. 

The  drawing-room  was  still  empty  ;  but  James  had  lighted 
the  gas  and  stirred  the  fire,  so  that  every  corner  was  as 
light  as  day.  In  every  window-recess,  under  every  couch 
and  sofa,  behind  every  large  chair,  even  in  the  closet  of  the 
etagere,  Susan  searched  for  her  little  charge,  hoping,  praying, 
to  find  her  asleep,  or  roguishly  hiding,  as  she  had  known  her 
to  do  before.  But  all  in  vain  :  no  merry  face,  no  sunny  curls, 
no  laughing  eyes,  peeped  out  from  recess  or  corner  or  hiding- 
place  ;  and  Susan's  ruddy  face  grew  pale  even  to  the  lips. 

She  flew  to  the  dining-room,  and  searched  it  as  narrowly 
as  she  had  done  the  drawing-room. 

No  :  she  was  not  there  ! 

The  library,  the  bath-room,  the  chambers,  the  nursery 
again,  the  servants'  chambers,  the  kitchen,  laundry,  pantries, 
the  very  cellar  ! 

No,  no,  no  !  'Toinette  was  in  none  of  them.  JToi- 
nette  was  not  in  any  nook  of  the  whole  wide  house,  that, 
without  her,  seemed  so  empty  and  desolate. 


80  THE    EMPTY   NEST. 

Standing  in  one  of  the  upper  entries,  mute  and  bewil 
dered,  Susan  heard  a  latch-key  turn  in  the  front-door  lock, 
and  presently  Mr.  Legrange's  pleasant  voice  speaking  in 
the  hall.  A  sudden  hope  rushed  into  Susan's  heart.  The 
child  might  possibly  have  gone  to  meet  her  father,  and  was 
now  returned  with  him.  She  rushed  down  stairs  as  fast  as 
her  feet  could  carry  her  ;  but  in  the  hall  stood  only  Mr.  Le- 
grange,  talking  to  James,  who  had  some  message  to  delivei 
to  him. 

As  Susan  flew  down  the  stairs,  the  master  turned  and 
looked  at  her  in  some  surprise. 

"  Be  careful,  Susan  :  you  nearly  fell  then.  Is  any  thing 
the  matter  ?  " 

"  Miss  'Toinette,  sir:  I  can't  find  her,  high  nor  low!" 
gasped  Susan. 

"  Can't  find  her  !  Good  heavens  !  you  don't  mean  to  say 
she's  lost ! "  exclaimed  the  father,  turning,  and  staring  at 
the  nurse  in  dismay. 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  know,  sir,  I'm  sure  ;  but  I  can't  find  her," 
cried  Susan,  wildly  bursting  into  tears. 

"  Where  is  her  mother  ?  where  is  Mrs.  Legrange,  James  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,  I'm  sure,"  said  the  footman  blankly. 

u  She's  in  her  own  room,  sir  ;   and  I'm  afraid  to  go  to  tell 


THE    EMPTY   NEST.  81 

her,  she'll  feel  that  bad.  And  indeed  it  wasn't  a  17  fault  of 
mine  :  I  only  went "  — 

"  Hush !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Legrange,  who  had  heard  his 
wife  close  her  chamber-door  and.  begin  to  descend  the  stairs, 
and  did  not  wish  her  to  be  frightened. 

"  Wait  here  a  moment,  Susan,"  added  he,  and,  running 
up  stairs,  entered  the  drawing-room  just  after  his  wife,  who 
stood  before  the  fire,  looking  so  pretty  and  so  gay  in  her 
blue  silk-dress,  with  a  ribbon  of  the  same  shade  twisted 
among  her  golden  curls,  that  her  husband  shrunk  back, 
dreading  to  ask  the  question  that  must  so  shock  and  startle 
her.  But  Mrs.  Legrange  had  caught  sight  of  him,  and, 
running  to  the  door,  opened  it  suddenly,  crying,  — - 

"  Corne  in,  you  silly  boy  !  Are  you  playing  bo-beep? 
I  don't  do  such  things  since  my  daughter  is  six  years  old.  I 
would  have  you  to  understand." 

Mr.  Legrange,  forcing  a  laugh  and  a  careless  tone,  came 
forward  as  she  spoke,  and,  stooping  to  kiss  her,  asked,  — 

"  And  where  is  your  daughter,  my  love?" 

"  'Toinette?  Oh!  I  suppose  she  is  with  Susan,"  began 
Mrs.  Legrange  carelessly  ;  and  then,  as  something  in  her 
husband's  voice  or  manner  attracted  her  attention,  she 
drew  back,  and  hurriedly  looked  into  his  fare,  crying, — 


82  THE    EMPlt   NEST. 

"OPaul!  what  is  it?  What  has  happened?  Is  Toi- 
octte  hurt  ?  Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  Be  quiet,  darling ;  don't  be  alarmed.  Wait  till  we  know 
more.  —  Susan,  come  up  here,"  called  Mr.  Legrange  ;  and 
Susan,  with  her  face  buried  in  her  apron,  and  sobbing  as 
if  her  heart  would  break,  crept  timidly  up  the  stairs  and 
into  the  room. 

At  sight  of  her,  Mrs.  Legrange  turned  pale,  and  clung  to 
her  husband  for  support. 

"  O  Susan  !  what  is  it?    Tell  me  quick  !  " 

"  She's  gone,  ma'am,  and  I  don't  know  where  !  "  sobbed 
the  nurse. 

"  Gone  !  What,  'Toinette  gone  !  Lost,  do  you  mean  ?  " 
cried  the  mother  wildly,  while  her  pale  cheeks  flushed 
scarlet,  and  her  soft  eyes  glittered  with  terror. 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  know,  ma'am  ;  but  I  can't  find  her." 

"  Lost !  What,  'Toinette  lost !  "  repeated  the  mother  in 
the  same  wild  tone,  and  trying  to  tear  herself  away  from 
her  husband's  detaining  arms.  But,  soothing  her  as  he 
would  a  child,  Mr.  Legrange.  by  a  few  calm  and  well- 
directed  questions,  drew  from  both  mistress  and  maid  all 
that  was  to  be  known  of  'Toinette's  disappearance,  and, 
when  the  whole  was  told,  said, — 


THE    EMPTY   NEST.  83 

"  Well,  Susan,  you  are  not  to  blame.  You  merely 
obeyed  your  mistress's  directions,  and  need  not  feel  that  this 
misfortune  is  at  all  your  fault.  No  doubt  "Toinette  has 
gone  out  by  herself,  and  is,  for  the  moment,  lost,  but,  I 
trust,  will  soon  be  found.  You  may  go  at  once  to  the 
houses  of  the  neighbors  whose  children  she  has  been  in  the 
habit  of  visiting.  Be  as  quick  as  you  can  about  it ;  and,  if 
you  do  not  find  her,  come  directly  home,  and  I  will  warn 
the  police.  Send  James  up  to  me  as  you  go  down." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Susan,  a  little  comforted ;  and,  as  she 
closed  the  door,  Mr.  Legrange  returned  to  his  wife,  and, 
clasping  her  tenderly  in  his  arms,  kissed  the  burning  cheeks 
and  glittering  eyes  that  frightened  him,  until  the  dangerous 
calm  broke  up  in  a  gracious  flood  of  tears  and  wild  sobs  of, 
"  My  child  !  —  O  my  little  child  !  " 

"  Hush,  darling,  hush  !  You  must  be  calm,  or  I  cannot 
leave  you,  —  cannot  go  to  look  for  her.  I  will  not  leave 
you  so,  even  to  search  for  her." 

"  Yes,  yes,  go  !  I  will  try —  O  Paul,  Paul !  do  go  and 
look  for  her  !  " 

"  When  I  see  you  calmer,  love  ;  not  till  then  ;  "  and  the 
tender-hearted  man  could  himself  have  wep.  to  see  the 
heroic  efforts  of  that  delicate  nature  to  control  itself  and 


81  THE    EMPTY    NEST. 

put  his  fears  to  rest.  He  still  was  soothing  her,  when,  with 
a  tap  at  the  door,  entered  James,  followed  by  Susan,  who 
hurriedly  announced  that  'Toinette  was  not  to  be  heard  of 
at  any  of  the  neighbors,  and  asked  where  she  should  go 
next. 

"  Nowhere  !  Stay  here  and  attend  to  Mrs.  Legrange 
until  I  return.  I  shall  go  at  once  to  the  police-station. 
James,  you  know  where  Mr.  Burroughs  lives?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Go  to  him.  Or  stay  :  he  is  dining  with  a  friend  to-day. 
Here  is  the  direction.  Go  to  this  house  at  once  ;  see  Mr. 
Burroughs  ;  tell  him  that  'Toinette  is  lost,  and  beg  him  to 
come  up  here  directly.  Keep  your  eyes  open  as  you  go  : 
you  may  possibly  meet  her  yourself.  Hurry,  man  ;  hurry 
for  your  life  !  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  man  heartily;  and  Mr.  Legrange 
returned  to  his  wife,  who  was  walking  quickly  up  and  down 
the  room,  her  hands  clasped  tight  before  her,  her  lips  rigid, 
and  her  eyes  set. 

"  There,  darling,  I  have  sent  for  Tom  to  help  us  ;  and 
no  one  could  do  it  better  than  Ixe  will.  I  am  going  to  the 
police  myself.  Take  courage,  dearest,  and  hope,  as  I  do, 
that,  before  morning,  we  shall  have  our  pet  back,  safe  and 


THE    EMPTY    NEST.  85 

sound.  But  you  —  O  Fanny  !  how  can  I  leave  you  so? 
Try,  try,  for  my  sake,  for  "Toinette's  sake,  to  be  calm  and 
hopeful." 

"  Yes  —  I  —  will  — try  !  "  sobbed  the  poor  mother  ;  and 
Mr.  Legrange,  not  daring  to  trust  himself  to  look  at  her 
again,  lest  he  also  should  break  down,  hastened  from  the 
room. 

But  morning  came,  and  night,  and  yet  another  morning  ; 
and  as  the  father,  the  mother,  the  cousin  who  was  almost 
brother  to  both,  the  assistants,  and  poor  broken-hearted 
Susan,  looked  into  each  other's  wan,  worn  faces,  they  found 
nothing  there  but  discouragement,  and  almost  hopeless 
despair. 

Mrs.  Legrange  who  had  not  eaten  or  slept  since  'Toi 
uette's  disappearance,  was  already  too  ill  to  sit  up,  but 
insisted  upon  remaining  dressed,  and  waiting  in  the  draw 
ing-room  for  the  reports  that  some  one  of  those  engaged  in 
the  search  brought  almost  hourly  to  the  house.  Her  hus 
band,  looking  like  the  ghost  of  fyis  former  self,  wandered 
incessantly  from  his  own  home  to  the  police-office  and  back 
again,  each  time  through  some  new  street,  and  peering  so 
curiously  into  the  face  of  every  child  he  met,  that  more 
than  one  of  them  ran  frightened  home  to  tell  their  mothers 


86  THE    EMPTY    NEST. 

that  they  had  met  a  crazy  man,  who  stared  at  them  as  if  he 
would  eat  them  up. 

And  yet  no  clew,  no  faintest  trace,  of  the  little  'Toinette, 
who  lay  tossing  in  her  fever-dreams  upon  good  Mrs.  Gin- 
niss's  humble  bed,  while  the  young  doctor  day  by  day  shook 
his  head  more  sadly  over  her,  and  said  to  his  own  heart 
that  it  was  only  by  God's  special  mercy  she  could  ever 
arise  from  that  cruel  illness. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A    TRACE   AND   A    SEARCH. 

THREE  weary  nights  and  two  days  had  passed,  when  as 
Mr.  Legrange,  bending  over  his  wife's  sofa,  entreated  her 
to  take  the  food  and  drink  he  had  himself  prepared  for 
her,  a  sharp  peal  at  the  bell,  followed  by  a  bounding  step 
upon  the  stair,  startled  them  both. 

"  It  is  Tom,  and  he  has  news  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Legrange 
in  a  low  voice,  as  she  pushed  away  the  tray  and  rose  to 
her  feet. 

The  door  opened,  and  the  young  man  entered,  his  tired 
face  glowing  with  hope  and  satisfaction.  In  his  hand  he 
held  a  little  bundle  ;  and  sitting  down,  with  no  more  than  a 
word  of  greeting,  he  hastily  untied  it  upon  his  knee. 

"Aren't  these  her  clothes?"  asked  he  breathlessly,  as 
he  held  up  by  one  sleeve  a  little  sky-blue  merino-dress,  with 
a  torn  lace  undersleeve  hanging  from  the  shoulder,  and  in 
the  other  hand  a  pair  of  dainty  little  boots  of  bronze  cloth. 

Mrs.  Legrange,  with  a  wild  cry,  darted  forward,  and, 

87 


88  A    TRACE    AND    A    SEARCH. 

grasping  the  pretty  dress,  buried  her  face  in  it,  covering  it 
with  kisses,  while  she  cried,  — 

"  Yea,  yes  !  O  Tom  !  where  is  she  ?  Tell  me  quick,  before 
my  poor  heart  breaks  with  joy  !  " 

Mr.  Burroughs  remained  silent.  How  could  he  say  tin, 
he  knew  as  little  as  ever  how  to  answer  this  appeal  ? 

"  Where  did  you  get  them,  Tom?"  asked  Mr.  Legrange 
hurriedly. 

"  Billings  found  them  in  a  pawn-broker's  shop.  You 
know  we  gave  all  the  detectives  a  list  of  the  clothing,  and 
full  description  of  the  child.  Billings  has  been  all  over  the 
city,  examining  at  every  pawn-broker's  shop  all  the  chil 
dren's  clothes  brought  in  since  we  lost  her,  you  know"  — 

"  Yes,  yes  !    And  when  "  — 

"  Last  night  he  found  this  in  a  little  out-of-the-way 
place  (I  didn't  stop  to  ask  where),  and,  thinking  they  looked 
like  the  right  thing,  brought  them  to  me.  I  was  asleep, 
and  the  people  stupidly  would  not  wake  me  :  so  he  waited  ; 
and  this  morning,  when  I  rose,  there  he  was.  I  snatched 
the  bundle,  and  came  right  along  with  it.  Now,  of  course, 
they'll  soon  find  who  left  them :  only,  unluckily,  they  wern't 
pawned,  but  sold  outright ;  so  they  didn't  take  the  name  ; 
but  the  man  thinks  it  was  an  old  woman  who  sold  them  to 


A   TRACE    AND    A    SEARCH.  89 

him.  He  is  in  custody  ;  and  we  will  go  down  and  hear  the 
examination,  Paul." 

"  Certainly,  at  once."  And  Mr.  Legrange  nervously 
buttoned  his  coat,  and  moved  toward  the  door. 

"  It  is  to  be  at  ten,  and  it  is  now  half-past  nine.  I 
suppose  we  had  better  go  at  once.  Good-by,  dear  cousin 
Fanny !  "  said  Mr.  Burroughs,  looking  sorrowfully  at  the 
wan  face  upraised  to  his,  as  the  poor  mother  replied,  — 

"  Good-by,  Tom  !  and  oh,  pray,  do  every  thing,  every 
thing,  that  can  be  done  !  I  cannot  tell "  — 

She  was  unable  to  finish,  and  the  two  men  hurried  away 
from  the  sight  of  a  sorrow  as  yet  without  remedy. 

The  examination  of  the  blear-eyed  and  stupid  old  pawn 
broker  resulted  in  very  little  satisfaction.  He  believed 
that  it  was  a  woman  who  had  sold  him  the  bundle  of  child's 
clothing.  He  was  not  sure  if  it  were  an  old  or  a  young 
woman,  but  rather  thought  it  was  an  old  woman.  It  might 
have  been  a  week  ago  that  he  bought  them ;  it  might  have 
been  more,  or  it  might  have  been  less  :  he  didn't  set  it  down, 
and  couldn't  say. 

This  was  all ;  and,  as  nothing  could  be  proved  or  even 
suspected  of  him  in  connection  with  'Toinette's  disappear 
ance,  he  was  discharged  from  custody,  although  warned  to 


90  A   TRACE    AND    A    SEARCH. 

hold  himself  in  readiness  to  appear  at  any  moment  when 
he  should  be  summoned. 

He  had  not  yet,  however,  left  the  room,  when  one  of  the 
audience,  a  policeman  off  duty,  stepped  forward,  and,  inti 
mating  that  he  had  something  to  say,  was  sworn,  and  went 
on  to  tell  how  he  had  been  leaning  against  a  lamp-post  at 
the  extreme  of  his  beat,  just  resting  a  bit,  in  the  edge  of 
evening  before  last,  when  he  saw  an  old  woman  that  they 
call  Mother  Winch  come  up  the  street,  carrying  a  bundle, 
and  leading  a  little  girl.  He  knew  she  hadn't  any  child 
of  her  own  ;  and  the  child  was  dressed  very  poor ;  and 
Mother  Winch  called  her  Judy  or  Biddy,  or  some  Paddy- 
name  or  other;  and  maybe  it  was  all  right,  and  maybe  it 
wasn't.  It  could  be  worked  up  easy  enough,  he  supposed. 

So  supposed  the  detective  in  whose  hands  the  clew  was 
immediately  placed  ;  but  when,  an  hour  later,  he  descended 
the  steps  into  Mother  Winch's  cellar,  he  found  that  a  keener 
and  a  swifter  messenger  than  himself  had  already  called 
the  wretched  old  woman  to  account ;  and  she  lay  across  the 
rusty  old  stove,  quite  dead,  with  a  broken  bottle  of  spirit 
upon  the  floor  beside  her,  and  all  the  front  of  her  body 
shockingly  burned.  The  coroner  who  was  called  to  see  her 
decided  that  she  had  fallen  across  the  stove,  either  in  a  fit, 


A   TRACE    AND    A    SEARCH.  91 

or  too  much  intoxicated  to  move,  and  had  died  unconscious 
of  her  situation.  She  was  buried  by  public  charity,  and 
in  her  grave  seemed  hidden  every  hope  of  tracing  the  lost 
child. 

"  She  must  have  been  carried  from  the  city,"  said  the 
detectives  ;  and  the  search  was  extended  into  the  country, 
and  to  other  towns  and  cities,  although  not  neglected  at 
home. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

TEDDY'S   TEMPTATION. 

TEDDY  GINNISS  sat  alone  in  his  master's  office,  feeling 
very  sad  and  forlorn  :  for  Dr.  Went  worth  had  that  morning 
said  that  the  chance  of  life  for  his  little  patient  was  very, 
very  small ;  and  it  seemed  to  Teddy  heavier  news  than  hu 
man  heart  had  ever  borne  before.  His  morning  duties  over, 
he  had  seated  himself  at  his  little  table,  and  tried  to  study 
the  lesson  given  him  by  Mr.  Burroughs  upon  the  previous 
day  ;  but  a  heavy  heart  makes  dim  eyes,  and  the  page 
where  Teddy's  were  fixed  seemed  to  him  no  better  than  a 
crowd  of  disjointed  letters  swimming  in  a  blinding  mist. 

A  hasty  step  was  heard  upon  the  stair  ;  and,  passing  the 
sleeve  of  his  jacket  across  his  eyes,  the  boy  bent  closer  over 
the  book  as  his  master  entered  the  room. 

"Any  one  been  in  this  morning,  Teddy? "asked  Mr. 
Burroughs,  passing  into  the  inner  office. 

"  No,  sir." 

"  I  am  going  out  of  town  for  a  day  or  two,  Teddy,  —  going 

92 


TEDDY'S  TEMPTATION.  93 

to  New  York  ;  and  Mr.  Barlow  will  be  here  to  attend  to  the 
business.  You  will  do  whatever  he  wishes  as  you  would 
for  me.  You  understand  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

The  good-natured  young  man,  struck  by  the  mournful 
tone  of  Teddy's  usually  hearty  voice,  turned  and  looked 
sharply  at  him. 

"  Aren't  you  well,  Teddy?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  thank  your  honor." 

"  Not  '  your  honor  '  until  I'm  a  judge,  Teddy.  But  what's 
amiss  with  you,  my  boy  ?  " 

"  I  wouldn't  be  troubling  your  —  you  with  it,  sir.  It's 
nothing  as  can  be  helped." 

"  No,  no  ;  but  what  is  it,  Teddy?"  insisted  the  lawyer, 
who  saw  that  Teddy  could  hardly  restrain  his  tears. 

"  Nothing,  sir ;  but  the  little  sister  is  mortal  sick,  and 
the  doctor  says  he's  afeard  she  won't  stand  it." 

"  Your  little  sister,  Teddy?" 

"  Yes.  sir." 

u  I  didn't  know  you  had  one.  You  never  spoke  of  her 
before,  did  you?" 

"  Maybe  not,  sir." 

'•  What  is  the  matter  with  her?  " 


04  TEDDY'S  TEMPTATION. 

"  The  faver,  sir." 

Mr.  Burroughs  knew  that  this  pi/rase  in  an  Irish  mouth 
means  but  one  disease,  and  replied,  in  a  sympathizing 
voice,  — 

"  Typhus  !  I'm  sorry  for  you,  Teddy,  and  sorry,  too,  for 
your  mother,  who  is  an  excellent  woman  ;  but  the  little 
girl  may  yet  recover :  while  there  is  life,  there  is  hope, 
-you  know.  Even  if  she  dies,  it  is  not  so  bad  -as  —  I  am 
going  to  New  York,  Teddy,  to  look  for  a  little  cousin  of 
mine  whose  parents  do  not  know  if  she  is  living  or  dead, 
suffering  or  safe :  that  is  worse  than  to  have  her  ill,  but 
under  their  care  and  protection,  isn't  it?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  perhaps.  Is  the  little  girl  in  New  York,  sir, 
do  you  think?  " 

"  We  hear  of  a  child  found  astray  there,  who  answers  to 
the  description  ;  and  I  am  going  to  see  her  before  we  men 
tion  the  report  to  her  mother.  Have  you  never  seen  Mr. 
Legrange  here,  Teddy?  It  is  his  little  girl.  I  wonder 
you  haven't  heard  us  talking  of  the  matter." 

"  I  don't  mind  the  name,  sir ;  and  I  haven't  heard  of  the 
little  girl  before.  Is  she  long  lost?  " 

"  Ten  days  yesterday.  I  have  been  busy  all  the  week  in 
the  search  for  her.  The  clothes  she  had  on  when  lost  were 


TEDDY  S    TEMPTATION.  90 

found  in  a  pawn-broker's  shop  ;  but  we  have  no  trace  of  her 
yet." 

"  What  looking  child  was  she,  if  you  please,  sir?"  asked 
Teddy  after  a  short  pause,  in  which  he  seemed  to  study 
intently ;  while  Mr.  Burroughs  went  on  glancing  at  the 
newspapers  in  his  hand. 

u  'Toinette  ?  Here  is  a  description  of  her  In  '  The  Journal/ 
and  I  have  a  photograph  in  ray  pocket-book.  Here  it  is. 
It  is  well  for  you  to  study  them  both  ;  for  possibly  you 
may  discover  her.  I  didn't  think  of  it  before ;  but  you 
are  just  the  boy  to  put  upon  the  search.  If  you  should 
find  her,  Teddy,  Mr.  Legrange  will  make  your  fortune. 
He  is  rich  and  generous,  and  this  is  his  only  child.  Eleven 
o'clock.  Shall  be  in  at  one." 

As  he  spoke,  Mr.  Burroughs  threw  the  paper  and  photo 
graph  upon  Teddy's  table,  and  hastily  left  the  office.  The 
boy  took  up  "  The  Journal,"  and  read  the  following  advertise 
ment  :  — 

u  Lost,  upon  the  evening  of  Oct.  31,  a  little  girl,  six  years 
of  age,  named  Antoinette  Legrange  ;  of  slight  figure,  round 
face,  delicate  color,  large  blue  eyes,  long  curled  hair  of  a 
bright-yellow  color,  small  mouth,  and  regular  teeth.  She 
was  dressed,  at  the  time  of  her  disappearance,  in  a  blue 
frock  and  brown  boots,  with  a  lady's  breakfast-shawl ;  and 


96  TEDDY'S  TEMPTATION. 

wore  upon  the  sleeve  of  her  dress  a  bracelet  of  coral  cameos, 
engraved  under  the  clasp  with  her  name  in  full.  A  liberal 
reward  will  be  paid  for  information  concerning  her.  Apply 
at  the  police-station." 

When  he  had  studied  this,  Teddy  took  up  the  photo 
graph,  and  examined  it  earnestly.  The  dress,  the  long 
curled  hair,  the  joyous  expression,  were  very  different  from 
the  pale  face,:i  wild  eyes,  and  cropped  head  of  the  little 
sister  at  home ;  but  Teddy's  heart  sank  within  him  as  he 
traced  the  delicate  features,  the  curved  lips,  and  trim  little 
figure.  He  dropped  the  picture,  and,  leaning  his  face  upon 
his  arm,  sobbed  aloud. 

"  I'll  lose  her  anyway,  if  she  dies  or  if  she  lives  j  and  it's 
all  the  little  sister  ever  I  got." 

But  presently  another  thought  made  Teddy  lift  his  head, 
and  look  anxiously  about  him  to  make  sure  that  his  emotion 
had  not  been  seen  by  any  one.  He  was  still  alone ;  and, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief,  he  dashed  away  the  tears  from  his 
eyes,  muttering, — 

"  It's  the  big  fool  I  am,  entirely !  Sure  and  mightn't  she 
have  picked  up  the  bracelet  in  the  street,  where  maybe  the 
little  lady  they've  lost  dropped  it?  And,  if  she  looks  like  the 
picture,  so  does  many  a  one  beside ;  and  it's  no  call  I  have 


TEDDY'S  TEMPTATION.  07 

to  be  troubling  the  master  with  telling  him  about  her  any 
way.  She's  my  own  little  sister,  and  I'll  keep  her  to  my 
self." 

A  sudden  sharp  recollection  darted  through  the  boy's 
mind,  and  he  grew  a  little  pale  as  he  added,  — 

"  Leastways,  I'll  keep  her  if  God  will  let  me  ;  and  sure 
isn't  he  stronger  nor  me?  If  it  isn't  for  me  to  have  her, 
can't  he  take  her,  if  it's  by  death,  or  if  it's  by  leading 
them  that's  searching  for  her  to  where  she  is?  And  more 
by  token,  that's  the  way  I'll  try  it.  If  God  means  she 
shall  stay  and  be  my  little  sister,  she'll  live,  and  I'll  take 
her,  and  say  nothing  to  nobody  about  it :  but,  if  it's  displasin* 
to  him,  she'll  die  ;  and  then  I'll  tell  the  master  all  about  it, 
and  he  may  do  what  he's  a  inind  to  with  me.  That's  the 
way  I'll  fix  it." 

And  Teddy,  well  satisfied  with  his  own  bad  argument, 
took  comfort,  and  went  back  to  his  books. 

When  Mr.  Burroughs  returned  to  the  office,  he  was  ac 
companied  by  Mr.  Barlow,  the  gentleman  who  was  to  occupy 
it  during  his  absence  ;  and  he  did  not  speak  to  Teddy,  except 
to  give  him  a  few  directions,  and  bid  him  a  kind  good-by. 
The  paper  and  picture  he  found  lying  upon  his  desk,  and 
hastily  put  in  his  pocket  without  remark  or  question. 

r 


(J8  TEDDY  S    TEMPTATION. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Teddy  avoided  meeting  his 
master's  eye,  but  watched  him  furtively  over  the  top  of 
liis  book,  raising  it  so  as  to  screen  his  face  whenever  Mr. 
Burroughs  looked  his  way,  and  trembling  whenever  he 
spoke  to  him ;  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  secretly 
rejoiced  at  seeing  him  leave  the  office,  knowing  that  he  was 
to  be  gone  for  some  time. 

The  long  day  was  over  at  last ;  and,  so  soon  as  the  hour 
for  closing  the  office  had  begun  to  strike,  Teddy  locked  the 
door,  sprang  down  stairs,  and  ran  like  a  deer  towards 
home,  feeling  as  if  in  some  manner  the  little  sister  was 
about  to  be  taken  away  from  him,  and  he  must  hasten  to 
prevent  it.  % 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  however,  he  checked  himself, 
creeping  up  as  silently  and  cautiously  as  possible,  and  stop 
ping  at  the  head  to  listen  for  the  clear  voice,  frightfully 
clear  and  shrill,  of  the  delirious  child,  which  usually  met 
him  there.  No  sound  was  to  be  heard  except  the  deep 
voice  of  the  Italian  organ-grinder  in  the  room  below,  talk 
ing  to  himself  or  his  monkey  as  he  prepared  supper  ;  and 
Teddy,  creeping  along  the  entry  to  his  mother's  door,  softly 
opened  it,  and  went  in. 

At  one  side  of  the  bed  stood  Mrs.  Giimiss  ;   at  the  other, 


TEDDY'S  TEMPTATION. 

Dr.  Wentworth  :  but  Teddy  saw  only  the  little  waxen  face 
upon  the  pillow  between  them,  —  the  little  face  so  strange 
and  lovely  now  ;  for  all  the  fever  flush  had  passed  away,  the 
baubling  lips  were  folded  white  and  still,  the  glittering  eyes 
were  closed,  and  the  long  dark  lashes  lay  motionless  upon 
the  cheek,  —  the  little  face  so  strange  and  terrible  in  its 
sudden,  peaceful  beauty. 

As  Teddy  softly  entered,  Dr.  Wentworth  turned  and  held 
a  warning  finger  up ;  then  bent  again  above  the  little  child, 
his  hand  upon  her  heart. 

The  boy  crept  close  to  his  mother,  down  whose  honest 
face  the  tears  ran  like  rain  ;  although  she  heeded  the  earnest 
warning  of  the  physician,  and  was  almost  as  still  as  the 
little  form  she  watched. 

"  Is  she  dead,  mother?"  whispered  Teddy. 

"  Whisht,  darlint !  wait  till  we  know,"  whispered  she  in 
return  ;  and  the  young  doctor  glanced  impatiently  at  both 
out  of  his  strained  and  eager  eyes.  Had  it  been  his  own  and 
only  child,  he  could  not  have  hung  more  earnestly  about 
her  :  and  here  was  the  strange,  sweet  charm  of  this  little 
life,  —  that  all  who  carne  within  its  influence  felt  themselves 
drawn  toward  it,  and  opened  wide  their  hearts  to  allow 
its  entrance  ;  feeling  not  alone  that  they  loved  the  lovely 


1 00  TEDDY'S  TEMPT  ATI  V>N. 

child,  bat  that  she  was  or  should  be  their  very  own,  to 
cherish  and  fondle  and  bind  to  them  forever. 

So  the  coarse,  hard-working  woman,  who  two  weeks  be-' 
fore  had  never  seen  her  face,  now  wept  as  true  and  bitter 
tears  as  she  had  done  beside  the  death-bed  of  the  child  she 
had  lost  when  Teddy  was  a  baby ;  and  the  young  doctor, 
who  had  watched  the  passage  of  a  hundred  souls  from 
time  to  eternity,  hung  over  this  little  dying  form  as  if  all 
life  for  him  were  held  within  it,  and  to  lose  it  were  to  lose 
all.  And  Teddy  —  ah  !  poor  Teddy  ;  for  upon  his  young 
heart  lay  not  only  the  bitterness  of  the  death  busy  with  his 
"  little  sister's  "  life,  but  the  heavy  burden  of  wrong  and  de 
ception,  and  the  proof,  as  he  thought,  of  God's  displeasure 
in  taking  from  him  at  last  what  he  had  tried  so  hard  to 

keep. 
I 

He  sank  upon  his  knees  beside  the  bed,  and  hid  his  face, 
whispering,  — 

u  0  God  !  let  her  live,  and  I  will  give  her  back  to  them 
as  I  kept  her  from." 

Over  and  over  and  over  again,  he  whispered  just  these 
words,  clinching  tight  his  boy-hands  to  keep  down  the 
agony  of  the  sacrifice  ;  while  in  the  very  centre  of  his  heart 
throbbed  a  hard,  dull  pain,  that  seemed  as  if  it  would  rend 
it  asunder. 


TEDDY'S  TEMPTATION.  101 

His  face  was  still  hidden,  when,  like  an  answer  to  his 
petition,  came  the  softest  of  whispers  from  the  doctor's 
lips,— 

"  She  will  live,  with  God's  help,  and  the  best  of  care 
from  you." 

"  An'  it's  the  bist  uv  care  she'll  git,  I'll  pass  me  word  for 
that,"  whispered  back  Teddy's  mother,  so  earnestly,  that  the 
doctor  answered,  — 

"  Hush  !  She  is  falling  asleep.  Do  not  wake  her,  for 
her  life  ! " 

He  sank  into  a  chair  as  he  spoke.  Mrs.  G-inniss  crept 
round  to  the  stove,  and,  crouching  beside  it,  covered  her 
head  with  her  apron,  and  remained  motionless.  As  for 
Teddy,  he  never  stirred  or  looked  up,  but,  with  his  'face 
hidden  upon  the  bed,  repeated  again  and  again  those  words, 
to  him  so  solemn  and  so  full  of  meaning,  until  in  the  silence 
and  the  waiting  he  fell  asleep,  and  gradually  sank  upon 
the  floor. 

And  so  the  night  went  on :  and  the  careful  eyes  of  the 
young  physichm  marked  how  a  faint  tinge  of  color  crept 
into  the  death- white  cheek  upon  the  pillow  ;  and  how  the 
still  lips  lost  their  hard,  cold  line,  and  grew  human  once 
more,  though  so  pale  ;  and  how  the  eyelids  stirred,  moving 


102  TEDDY'S  TEMPTATION. 

the  heavy  lashes ;  and  a  faint  pulse  fluttered  in  the  slender 
throat. 

At  last,  with  a  long,  soft  sigh,  the  lips  lightly  parted  ;  the 
eyelids  opened  slowly,  showing  for  a  moment  the  blue  eyes, 
dim  and  languid,  but  no  longer  wild  with  delirium ;  and 
then  they  slowly  closed,  and  the  breath  came  softly  and 
regularly  from  the  parted  lips. 

Dr.  Wentworth  heaved  an  answering  sigh  of  mingled 
weariness  and  relief,  and,  rising,  went  to  Mrs.  Ginuiss's  side, 
touching  her  upon  the  shoulder,  and  whispering,  — 

"  She  is  doing  well.  Keep  her  as  quiet  as  possible.  I 
will  be  in  at  nine." 

Hushing  the  murmured  blessings  she  would  have  poured 
upon  his  head,  the  young  man  stole  softly  from  the  room 
and  down  the  stairs  into  the  street,  where  already  the  first 
gray  of  dawn  struggled  with  the  flaring  gas-lights. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

THE   CACHUCA. 

TEN  days  more,  and  beside  the  fire  in  Mis.  Ginniss's 
ai  tic-room  sat  a  little  figure,  propped  in  the  wooden  rock 
ing-chair  with  pillows  and  comfortables  ;  while  upon  a  small 
stand  close  beside  her  were  arranged  a  few  cheap  toys,  a 
plate  with  some  pieces  of  orange  upon  it,  a  sprig  of  gera 
nium  in  a  broken-nosed  pitcher  of  water,  and  a  cup  of  beef- 
tea. 

But  for  none  of  these  did  the  languid  little  invalid  seem 
to  care  ;  and  lying  back  in  the  chair,  her  head  nestled  into 
the  pillow,  her  parched  lips  open,  and  her  eyes  half  closed, 
she  looked  so  little  like  the  bright  and  glowing  'Toinette 
who  had  danced  at  her  birthday-party  not  a  month  before, 
that  it  is  a  question  if  any  one  but  her  own  mother  would 
have  believed  her  to  be  the  same. 

Mrs.  Ginniss,  hard  at  work  upon  the  frills  of  a  fashion 
able  lady's  skirt,  paused  every  few  moments  to  look  over  her 
shoulder  at  the  little  wasted  face  with  the  wistful  look  of 

103 


104  THE    CACIJUCA. 

some  dumb  creatare  who  sees  its  offspring  suffering,  and 
cannot  tell  how  to  relieve  it. 

Suddenly  setting  the  flat-iron  she  had  just  taken  back 
upon  the .  stove,  the  washwoman  came  and  bent  over  the 
child,  looking  earnestly  into  her  face. 

"  An'  it's  waker  an*  whiter  she  gits  every  day.  Sure 
and  I'm  afther  seeing  the  daylight  through  the  little  hands 
uv  her  ;  and  her  eyes  is  that  big,  they  take  the  breath  uv  me 
whin  I  mate  'em.  See,  darliut !  —  see  the  purty  skip-jack 
Teddy  brought  ye  !  " 

She  took  from  the  table  the  toy  she  named,  and,  pulling 
the  string,  made  the  figure  of  the  man  vault  over  the  top 
of  the  stick  and  back  several  times,  crying  at  the  same 
time,  — 

"Hi,  thin!  —  hi,  thin!  See  how  the  crather  joomps, 
honey  !  " 

But,  although  the  languid  eyes  of  the  child  followed  her 
motions  for  a  moment,  no  shadow  of  a  smile  stirred  the 
parched  lips  ;  and  presently  the  eyes  closed,  as  if  the  effor; 
were  too  much  for  them. 

Mrs.  Ginuiss  laid  the  toy  upon  the  table,  and  took  up  the 
cup  of  beef-tea. 

"  Have  a  soop  of  yer  dhrink,  darlint?"  said  she,  tenderly 


THE    CACIIUCA.  105 

holding  the  cup  to  the  child's  lips,  and  raising  her  head 
with  the  other  hand  ;  but,  with  a  moan  of  impatience  or  dis 
tress,  the  weary  head  turned  itself  upon  the  pillow,  and  the 
little  wasted  hand  half  rose  to  push  away  the  cup. 

"  An' what  is  it  I'll  plaze  ye  wid,  mavourneen?  Do 
yees  want  Teddy  to  coom  home  ? "  asked  the  poor  woman 
in  despair. 

A  faint  murmur  of  assent  crept  from  between  the  parched 
lips  ;  and  the  eyes,  slowly  opening,  glanced  toward  the  door. 

"  It's  this  minute  he'll  be  here,  thin,"  said  the  wash 
woman  joyfully.  "  An'  faith  yees  ought  to  love  him,  honey  ; 
for  he'd  give  the  two  eyes  out  of  his  head  to  plaze  yees,  an' 
git  down  on  his  knees  to  thank  yees  for  takin'  'em.  Now, 
thin,  don't  ye  hear  his  fut  upon  the  stair?" 

But  the  heavy  steps  coming  up  the  stairs  were  not 
Teddy's,  as  his  mother  well  knew  ;  and  although,  when  they 
stopped  upon  the  landing  below  her  own,  she  pretended  to 
be  much  surprised,  she  would,  in  reality,  have  been  much 
more  so  if  they  had  not  stopped. 

"And  it's  Jovarny  it  wor  that  time.,  honey,"  said  she 
soothingly:  u  but  Teddy '11  coom  nixt ;  see  if  he  doun't, 
Cherry  darlint." 

But  Cherry,  closing  her  eyes,  with  no  effort  at  reply,  lay 


106  THE    CACIIUCA. 

as  motionless  upon  her  pillow  as  if  she  had  been  asleep  or 
in  a  swoon. 

Suddenly,  from  the  room  below,  was  heard  a  strain  of 
plaintive  music.  The  organ-grinder,  for  some  reason  or 
other,  was  trying  his  instrument  in  his  own  room  ;  although, 
remembering  the  sick  child  above,  he  played  as  softly  and 
slowly  as  he  could.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  done  so 
since  Cherry  had  been  ill ;  and  Mrs.  Ginniss  anxiously 
watched  her  face  to  see  what  effect  the  sounds  would  have. 

The  air  was  "  Kathleen  Mavourneen  ; "  and,  as  one  tender 
strain  succeeded  another,  the  watchful  nurse  could  see  a 
faint  color  stealing  into  the  child's  face,  while  from  between 
the  half-closed  lids  her  eyes  shone  brighter  than  they  had 
for  many  a  day. 

"If  it  plazes  her,  I'll  pay  him  to  grind  away  all  day,  the 
crather,"  murmured  she  joyfully. 

The  song  ended,  and,  after  a  little  pause,  was  succeeded 
by  a  lively  dancing-tune. 

"  She'll  not  like  that  so  well,"  thought  Mrs.  Ginniss  ;  but, 
to  her  great  astonishment,  the  child,  after  listening  a 
moment,  started  upright  in  her  chair,  her  eyes  wide  open 
and  shining  with  excitement,  her  cheeks  glowing,  and  her 
little  hands  fluttering. 


THE    CACHUCA.  107 

"  Mamma,  mamma !  I'm  Cherritoe  !  and  I  can  dance 
with  that  music,  and  mamma  can  play  it  more  "  — 

The  words  faltered  upon  her  lips,  and  she  sank  suddenly 
back  upon  the  pillows  in  a  death-faint.  At  the  same  mo 
ment,  Teddy  came  bounding  up  the  stairs  and  into  the 
room. 

"  Go  an'  shtop  that  fool's  noise  if  yees  brain  him,  an'  ax 
him  what's  the  name  o'  that  divil's  jig  he's  playing !  "  ex 
claimed  Mrs.  Ginniss  as  she  caught  sight  of  the  boy ;  and 
Teddy,  without  stopping  for  a  question,  hastily  obeyed. 

In  a  moment  he  was  back. 

"  It's  the  cachuca,  mother ;  but  what's  the  matter  with 
the  little  sister  ?  " 

"Whist!  She's  swounded  wid  the  noise  he's  afther 
making,"  replied  his  mother  angrily,  as  she  laid  the 
wasted  little  figure  upon  her  bed,  and  bathed  the  temples 
with  cold  water. 

Teddy  stood  anxiously  looking  on.  Ever  since  the  night 
when  the  little  sister's  fever  had  turned,  and  the  doctor  had 
promised  that  she  should  live,  a  struggle  had  been  going  on 
in  the  boy's  heart.  He  could  not  but  believe  that  God  had 
given  back  the  almost-departed  life  in  answer  to  his  earnest 
prayer  and  promise ;  and  he  had  no  intention  of  breaking 


108  THE    CACHUCA. 

the  promise,  or  withholding  the  price  he  felt  himself  to  have 
offered  for  that  life.  But,  like  many  older  and  better 
taught  persons,  Teddy  did  not  see  clearly  enough  how  little 
difference  there  is  between  doing  wrong  and  failing  to  dt) 
right,  or  how  much  difference  between  promising  with  the 
lips  and  promising  with  the  heart. 

While  his  little  sister,  as  he  still  called  her,  lay  between 
life  and  death,  Teddy  said  to  himself  that  the  excitement 
of  seeing  her  friends  might  be  fatal  to  her,  and  that,  if  she 
should  die,  their  grief  in  this  second  loss  would  be  greater 
than  what  they  were  now  suffering. 

When  she  began  slowly  to  recover,  he  said  that  they 
would  only  be  frightened  at  seeing  her  so  wasted  and  weak, 
and  that  he  would  keep  her  until  she  had  recovered  some 
thing  of  her  good  looks  ;  and,  finally,  he  had  begun  to  think 
that  it  would  be  no  more  than  fair  that  he  should  repay 
himself  for  all  the  sorrow  and  anxiety  her  illness  had  given 
him  by  keeping  her  a  little  while  after  she  was  quite  well 
and  strong,  and  could  go  for  a  walk  with  him,  and  see  the 
beautiful  shops,  with  their  Christmas-wares  displayed. 

"  New  Year's  will  be  soon  enough.  I'll  take  her  to  the 
master  for  a  New- Year's  gift,"  Teddy  had  said  to  himself 
that  very  night  as  he  came  up  the  stairs  ;  and  a  sort  o£» 


THE    CACHUCA.  109 

satisfaction  crept  into  his  heart  in  thinking  that  he  had  at 
least  fixed  a  date  for  fulfilling  his  promise. 

But  New- Year's  Day  found  'Toinette,  or  Cherry  as  we 
must  learn  to  call  her,  more  unlike  her  former  self  than 
she  had  been  when  he  formed  the  resolution.  The  strange 
emotion  that  had  overcome  her  in  listening  to  the  organ- 
grinder's  music  had  caused  a  relapse  into  fever,  followed  by 
other  troubles  ;  and  spite  of  Dr.  Wentworth's  constant  care, 
Mrs.  Ginniss's  patient  and  tender  nursing,  and  Teddy's 
devotion,  the  child  seemed  pining  away  without  hope  or 
remedy. 

"  I'll  wait  till  the  spring  comes,  anyway,"  said  Teddy  to 
himself.  "  Maybe  the  warm  weather  will  bring  her  round, 
and  I'll  hear  her  laugh  out  once,  and  take  her  for  just  one 
walk  on  the  Commons  before  I  carry  her  to  the  master." 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

GIOVANNI   AND    PANTALON. 

IT  was  April ;  and  the  bit  of  sky  to  be  seen  between  two 
tall  roofs,  from  the  window  of  Mrs.  Ginniss's  attic,  had 
suddenly  grown  of  a  deeper  blue,  and  was  sometimes 
crossed  by  a  great  white,  glittering  cloud,  such  as  is  never 
seen  in  winter ;  and,  when  the  window  was  raised  for  a  few 
moments,  the  air  came  in  soft  and  mild,  and  with  a  fresh 
smell  to  it,  as  if  it  had  blown  through  budding  trees  and 
over  fresh-ploughed  earth. 

Cherry  was  now  well  enough  to  be  dressed,  and  to  play 
about  the  room,  or  sew  a  little,  or  look  at  pictures  in  the 
gaudily  painted  books  Teddy  anxiously  saved  his  coppers 
to  buy  for  her :  but,  more  than  once  in  the  day,  she  would 
push  a  chair  to  the  bed,  and  climb  up  to  lie  upon  it ;  or 
would  come  and  cling  to  her  foster-mother,  moaning, — 

"  I'm  tired  now,  mammy.     Hold  me  in  your  lap." 

And  very  seldom  was  the  petition  refused,  although  the 
wash-tub  or  the  ironing-table  stood  idle  that  it  might  be 

110 


GIOVANNI    AND    PANTALON.  Ill 

granted;  for  so  well  had  great-hearted  Mrs.  Giflniss  come 
to  love  the  child,  that  she  would  have  been  as  unwilling  as 
Teddy  himself  to  remember  that  she  had  not  always  been 
her  own. 

Sitting  thus  in  her  mammy's  lap  one  day,  Cherry  sud 
denly  asked,  — 

"  Where's  the  music,  mammy?" 

"  The  music,  darlint  ?   And  what  music  do  ye  be  manin'  ?  " 

• 
"  The  music  I  heard  one  day  before  I  went  to  heaven. 

Didn't  you  hear  it?" 

"  An'  whin  did  ye  go  to  hivin,  ye  quare  child?" 

u  Oh  !  I  don't  know.  When  I  came  back,  I  was  sick  in 
the  bed.  I  want  the  music,  mammy." 

u  It's  Jovarny  she  manes,  the  little  crather,"  said  Mrs. 
Ginniss,  and  promised,  that  if  Cherry  would  lie  on  the  bed, 
and  let  her  "  finish  ironing  the  lady's  clothes  all  so  pretty,''' 
she  should  hear  the  music  as  soon  as  Teddy  and  the  organ- 
grinder  came  home. 

To  this  proposal,  Cherry  consented  more  willingly  than 
her  mammy  had  dared  to  expect ;  and  when,  after  finishing 
the  ironing  of  some  intricate  embroideries,  the  laundress 
turned  to  look,  she  found  the  child  had  dropped  quietly 
asleep. 


112  GIOVANNI    AND    PANTALON. 

"An*  all  the  betther  fur  yees,  darlint,"  said  she.  '•  Whin 
ye  waken,  ye'll  think  no  more  uv  the  music  that  well-nigh 
kilt  yees  afore." 

An  hour  later,  Teddy's  entrance  aroused  the  sleeper,  who, 
rolling  over  upon  the  bed  with  a  pretty  little  gape,  smiled 
upon  him,  saying,  — 

"  Where's  the  music,  Teddy?  Mammy  said  you'd  get  it 
for  me." 

"  It's  Jovarny  She's  afther  wantin'  to  hear  play  on  his 
grind-orgin  ;  an'  I  towld  her  he'd  coom  whin  yees  did," 
explained  Mrs.  Ginniss  :  and  Teddy,  delighted  to  be  asked 
to  do  any  thing  for  his  little  sister,  lost  no  time  in  running 
down  stairs,  and  begging  the  Italian,  who  had  just  returned 
home,  to  play  one  of  the  prettiest  tunes  in  his  list,  but  on 
no  account  to  touch  the  one  that  had  so  strangely  affected 
the  little  invalid  upon  a  former  occasion. 

The  Italian  very  willingly  complied,  and  was  already  in 
the  midst  of  a  pretty  waltz  when  Teddy  re-appeared  in  his 
mother's  room.  Cherry's  delight  was  unbounded  ;  and 
vhen  the  whole  list  of  tunes,  with  the  exception  of  the 
v-achuca,  had  been  exhausted,  she  put  her  arms  round 
Teddy's  neck,  and  kissed  him,  saying,  — 

"  Thank  you,  little  brother.  I'll  eat  my  supper  for  you 
now." 


GIOVANNI   AND    PANTALON.  ll'i 

And  this,  as  Cherry  had  hardly  been  willing  to  eat  any 
thing  since  her  illness,  was  considered,  both  by  Teddy  and 
herself,  as  a  remarkable  proof  of  amiability  and  affection. 

The  next  day,  before  Teddy  went  away  in  the  morning, 
he  was  obliged  to  promise  that  he  would  bring  the  music 
at  night;  and,  as  he  ran  down  stairs,  he  stopped  to  beg  the 
organ-grinder  to  come  home  as  early  as  possible,  and  to 
come  prepared  to  play  for  the  little  sister's  benefit. 

"  Let  her  come  down  and  see  the  organ  and  Pantalon," 
said  the  Italian  in  his  broken  English  ;  and  Teddy  eagerly 
cried,  — 

"  Oh  !  may  she?"  and  ran  up  stairs  again  with  the  invita 
tion.  But  Mrs.  Ginniss  prudently  declared  that  Cherry 
must  not  think  of  leaving  her  own  room  at  present,  while 
the  stairs  and  entries  were  so  cold ;  and  "  Thin  agin,"  said 
she,  "  maybe  the  bit  mooukey  ud  scare  her  back  into  the 
fayver  as  bad  as  iver." 

So,  for  a  week  or  two  longer,  Cherry  was  obliged  to 
content  herself  with  an  evening-concert  through  the  floor  : 
and  upon  these  concerts  the  whole  of  the  day  beemed  to 
depend.  Very  soon  the  little  giti  began  to  have  her  favorites 
among  the  half-dozen  airs  she  so  often  heard,  and,  little  by 
little,  learned  to  hum  them  all,  giving  them  names  of  her 


114  GIOVANNI   AND    PANTALON. 

own.  "  Kathleen  Mavourneen"  she  always  Called  "  Susan," 
although  quite  unable  to  give  any  reason  for  So  doing ;  and 
Teddy,  who  watched  her  constantly,  noticed  that  she  always 
remained  very  thoughtful,  wearing  a  puzzled,  anxious  look, 
while  hearing  it.  After  a  time,  however,  this  dim  asso 
ciation  with  the  almost-forgotten  past  wore  away ;  and 
although  Cherry  still  called  the  air  "  Susan,"  and  liked  ;:; 
better  than  any  of  the  rest,  it  seemed  to  have  become  a 
thing  of  the  present  instead  of  the  past. 

At  last,  one  warm  day  in  April,  when  Giovanni  had 
returned  home  earlier  than  usual,  and  Teddy  again  brought. 
an  invitation  to  the  bambina,  as  he  called  Cherry,  to  visit 
him,  Mrs.  Ginniss  reluctantly  consented  ;  and  the  little  girl, 
wrapped  in  shawls  and  hood,  with  warm  stockings  pulled 
over  her  shoes,  was  carried  in  Teddy's  arms  down  the  stairs 
as  she  had  been  brought  up  in  them  six  months  before. 
The  boy  himself  was  the  first  to  think  of  it,  and,  as  he 
stooped  to  take  the  little  figure  in  his  arms,  said,  — 

"  You  haven't  been  over  the  stairs,  sissy,  since  Teddy 
brought  you  up  last  fall." 

"  Teddy  didn't  bring  me  up.  I  never  came  up,  'cause  1 
never  was  down,"  said  Cherry  resolutely ;  and  the  boy, 
who  dreaded  abc  ve  all  things  to  awaken  in  her  mind  any 


GIOVANNI  AND    PANTALON.  115 

recollection  of  the  past,  said  no  more,  but  carefully  wrap 
ping  the  shawl  about  her,  and  promising  his  mother  not  to 
stay  too  long,  carried  her  gently  down  the  stairs,  and  to 
the  door  Giovanni  opened  as  he  heard  them  approach. 

"  Welcome,  little  one  !  "  said  the  Italian  in  his  own  lan 
guage  as  they  entered ;  and  Cherry  smiled  at  the  sound, 
and  then  looked  troubled  and  thoughtful. 

The  truth  was,  that  "Toinette's  father  and  mother  had 
often  spoken  both  Italian  and  French  in  her  presence  ;  and 
although  the  terrible  fever  had  destroyed  her  memory  of 
home  and  parents,  and  all  that  went  before,  the  things  that 
she  had  known  in  those  forgotten  days  still  awoke  in  her 
heart  a  vague  sense  of  pain  and  loss,  —  an  effort  to  recall 
something  that  seemed  just  vanishing  away,  as  through  the 
strings  of  a  broken  and  forsaken  harp  will  sweep  some 
vagrant  breeze,  wakening  the  ghosts  of  its  forgotten  melo 
dies  to  a  brief  and  shadowy  life,  again  to  pass  and  be  for 
gotten. 

So  Toinette,  still  clinging  to  Teddy's  neck,  turned,  and 
fixed  her  great  eyes  upon  the  Italian's  dark  face  so  earnestly 
and  so  piteously,  that  he  smiled,  showing  all  his  white 
teeth,  and  asked,  — 

"  Does  the  little  one  know  the  language  of  my  country?" 


116  GIOVANNI   AND    PANTALttf. 

u  No  :  of  course  she  don't.  I  don't,"  said  Teddy,  looking 
a  little  anxiously  into  Cherry's  face,  and  wondering  in  his 
own  heart  if  she  might  not  have  known  Italian  in  that  for 
mer  life,  of  whose  loves  and  interests  he  had  always  been  so 
jealous.  . 

Giovanni  looked  curiously  at  the  two  children.  Cherry, 
in  recovering  from  her  illness,  was  regaining  the  wonderful 
beauty,  that,  for  a  time,  had  seemed  lost.  The  remnant 
of  her  golden  hair  spared  by  Mother  Winch's  shears  had 
fallen  off  after  the  first  attack  of  fever,  and  was  now 
replaced  by  thick,  short  curls  of  a  sunny  brown,  cluster 
ing  about  her  white  forehead  with  a  careless  grace  far 
more  bewitching  than  the  elaborate  ringlets  Susan  had  been 
so  proud  of  manufacturing ;  while  long  confinement  to  the 
house  had  rendered  the  delicate  complexion  so  pearly  in  its 
whiteness,  so  exquisite  in  its  rose-tints,  that  one  could 
hardly  believe  it  possible  that  flesh  and  blood  should 
become  so  etherealized  even  while  gaining  health  and 
strength. 

The  subtle  eye  of  the  Italian  marked  every  point  of  this 
exquisite  loveliness,  ran  admiringly  over  the  outlines  of  the 
graceful  figure,  the  delicate  hands  and  little  feet,  the  classic 
curve  of  the  lips,  the  thin  nostrils  and  tiny  ears  ;  then  re- 


GIOVANNI    AND    PANTALON.  117 

turned  to  the  clear,  full  eyes,  with  their  pencilled  brows  and 
heavy  lashes,  and  smiled  at  the  earnestness  of  the  gaze  that 
met  his  own.  Then,  from  this  lovely  and  patrician  face,  the 
Italian's  eyes  wandered  to  Teddy's  coarse  and  unformed 
features,  and  figure  of  uncouth  strength. 

"  Nightingales  are  not  hatched  from  hens'  eggs,"  muttered 
Giovanni  in  his  native  tongue. 

u  Speak  that  some  mo-re  ;  I  like  it,"  said  Cherry  softly. 

"  Yes  ;  and  you  are  like  it,  and,  like  all  that  belongs  to  my 
Italia,  beautiful  and  graceful,"  said  Giovanni,  dropping  the 
liquid  accents  as  lovingly  from  his  lips  as  if  they  had  been 
a  kiss.  Then,  in  the  imperfect  English  he  generally  spoke, 
he  asked  of  Teddy,  — 

"  Where  did  the  child  come  from?  " 

"  She's  my  little  sister,"  replied  the  boy  doggedly. 

The  Italian  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  raised  his  eye 
brows,  muttering  in  his  own  tongue,  — 

"  I  never  heard  or  saw  any  child  above  there  in  the  fire-t 
weeks  of  my  living  here.  But  what  affair  is  it  of  mine  ?  Tl  e 
child  I  have  lost  is  safe  with  the  Holy  Mother  !  " 

He  crossed  himself,  and  muttered  a  prayer ;  then  from 
behind  the  stove,  where  he  lay  warming  himself,  pulled  a 
little  creature,  at  sight  of  whom  Cherry  uttered  a  scream, 
and  clung  to  Teddy. 


118  GIOVANNI    AND    PANTALON. 

u  It's  the  monkey,  sissy  ;  it's  Jovarny's  monkey  ;  and  nig 
name  is  Pantaloons,"  explained  Teddy. 

"  Pantalon,"  corrected  the  monkey's  master  ;  and  snap 
ping  his  fingers,  and  whistling  to  the  monkey,  he  called  him 
1o  his  shoulder,  and  made  him  go  through  a  number  of 
tricks  and  gestures,  —  some  of  them  so  droll,  that  Cherry's 
terror  ended  in  peals  of  laughter  ;  and  she  soon  left  Teddy's 
side  to  run  and  caper  about  the  room  in  imitation  of  the 
monkey's  antics. 

"Does  she  dance,  the  little  one?"  asked  Giovanni, 
watching  the  child's  lithe  movements  admiringly. 

"  Sure,  and  every  step  she  takes  is  as  good  as  dancing," 
said  Teddy  evasively. 

"  Let  us  see,  then." 

And  the  Italian,  arranging  the  stops  of  his  organ,  played 
the  pretty  waltz  Cherry  had  so  often  heard  from  it,  and 
liked  so  well. 

The  child  continued  her  frolicsome  motions,  unconsciously 
adapting  them  to  the  music,  until  she  was  moving  in  perfect 
harmony  with  it,  although  not  in  the  step  or  figure  of  a 
waltz. 

"She  was  born  to  dance!"  exclaimed  Giovanni  with 
enthusiasm  ;  and,  moving  the  stops  of  the  organ,  he  passed, 


GIOVANNI    AND    PANTALON.  119 

without   pause,    into    the    gay  and  airy  movement  of  the 
cachuca. 

As  the  first  tones  struck  the  child's  ear,  she  faltered  ;  then 
stopped,  turned  pale,  and  listened  intently. 

"  Whisht !  That's  the  tune  I  told  you  not  to  play  !  "  ex 
claimed  Teddy.  But  Giovanni,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  child, 
did  not  hear  or  did  not  heed  him,  but  played  on  ;  while 
Cherry,  trembling,  pale,  her  hands  clasped,  lips  apart,  and 
eyes  fixed  intently  upon  the  musician,  seemed  shaken  10  the 
very  soul  by  some  strange  and  undefined  emotion.  Sud 
denly  a  scarlet  flush  mounted  to  the  roots  of  her  hair,  her 
eyes  grew  bright,  her  parted  lips  curved  to  a  roguish  smile  ; 
and,  pointing  her  little  foot,  she  spun  away  in  the  graceful 
movements  of  the  dance,  and  continued  it  to  the  close,  finish 
ing  with  a  courtesy,  and  kiss  of  the  hand,  that  made  Giovanni 
drop  the  handle  of  his  organ,  clasp  his  hands,  and  cry  in 
Italian,  — 

"  Bravo,  bravo,  picciola !  Truly  you  were  born  to 
dance  !  " 

But  the  child,  suddenly  losing  the  life  and  color  that  had 
sparkled  through  every  line  of  face  and  figure,  ran  with  a 
wild  cry  to  Teddy,  and,  clasping  him  tight  round  the  neck, 
burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  crying, — 


12<J  GIOVANNI    4.ND    PANTALON. 

"Take  me  home,  Teddy!  —  quick,  quick!  I  want 
mamma  !  " 

Mrs.  Ginniss  had  taught  her  to  say  "  mammy  ;  "  ami 
Teddy  remembered  with  dismay  that  she  had  never  used  the 
name  "  mamma,"  except  in  the  delirium  of  her  fever,  when 
she  was  evidently  addressing  some  distant  and  beloved 
object.  But  still  he  chose  to  understand  the  appeal  in  his 
own  way  ;  and,  hastily  wrapping  the  shawls  about  the  little 
figure,  he  raised  it  in  his  arms,  saying  soothingly,  — 

"  Come,  then  ;  come  to  mammy,  little  sister.  You  didn't 
ought  to  have  danced  and  got  all  tired." 

"  Good-by,  little  one,"  said  Giovanni  somewhat  rue 
fully.  The  child  raised  her  head  from  Teddy's  shoulder, 
and.  smiling  through  her  tears,  said  sweetly, — 

"  Good-by,  'Varny.  It  wasn't  you  made  me  cry,  but 
because  "  — 

"  'Cause  you  was  tired,  little  sister,"  interposed  Teddy 
hastily ;  and  Giovanni  looked  at  him  craftily. 

"  I'll  come  and  see  you  another  day,  'Varny  ;  but  I  musl 
go  lie  down  now,"  continued  Cherry,  anxious  to  remove 
any  wound  her  new  friend's  feelings  might  have  received. 
And  the  organ-grinder  smiled  until  he  showed  all  his  white 
teeth,  as  he  replied,  — 


GIOVANNI  AND  PANTALON.  121 

"Yes,  and  again  and  again,  —  as  often  as  you  will, 
picciola." 

But  Teddy,  shaking  his  head  disapprovingly,  muttered, 
as  he  carried  his  little  sister  away,  — 

"  No :  it  isn't  good  for  you,  sissy,  to  get  so  tired  and 
worried." 


CHAPTER    XV. 

THE    PINK-SILK   DRESS. 

BUT,  spite  of  Teddy's  disapproval  and  his  mother's  doubts, 
neither  of  them  could  resist  the  earnestness  of  Cherry's 
entreaties,  day  after  day,  to  be  allowed  to  u  go  down  and 
see  the  music  in  'Varny's  room  ; "  and  it  finally  became 
quite  a  regular  thing  for  Teddy,  upon  his  return  home,  to 
find  his  little  sister  ready  shawled  and  hooded,  and  waiting 
for  him  to  accompany  her. 

As  the  summer  came  un,  and  Avhole  streets-full  of  his 
patrons  left  the  city,  Giovanni  became  less  regular  in  his 
hours  of  leaving  or  returning  home  ;  often  remaining  in 
his  room  several  hours  of  the  day,  smokirg,  sleeping,  or 
training  Pantalon  in  new  accomplishments. 

So  sure  as  she  knew  him  to  be  at  home,  Cherry  gave  her 
foster-mother  no  peace  until  she  had  consented  to  allow  her 
to  visit  him  ;  and  Mrs.  Ginniss  said  to  herself,  — 

"  Sure,  and  it's  no  harm  the  little  crather  can  git  uv  man 
nor  monkey  nor  music  ;  an'  what's  the  good  uv  cros.«in'  her  ?  " 

122 


THE    PINK-SILK    DK2SS.  123 

So  it  finally  came  about  that  Cherry  spent  many  more 
hours  in  the  company  of  Giovanni,  Pantalon,  and  the  organ, 
than  Teddy  either  knew,  or  would  have  liked,  had  his 
mother  thought  fit  to  tell  him. 

At  first,  the  conversation  between  the  new  friends  was 
carried  on  in  the  imperfect  English  used  by  both  ;  but,  very 
soon,  Giovanni,  noticing  the  facility  with  which  the  child 
adopted  an  occasional  word  of  Italian,  set  himself  to  teach 
her  the  language,  and  succeeded  beyond  his  expectations. 
Indeed,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  soft  and  liquid  accents  of 
the  beloved  tongue  had  never  sounded  to  him  so  sweet 
beneath  Italian  skies  as  now,  when  they  fell  from  the  rosy 
lips  and  pure  tones  of  the  charming  child  whom  he,  with 
all  who  approached  her,  was  learning  to  love  with  the  best 
love  of  his  nature. 

Besides  the  Italian  lessons,  Giovanni  taught  his  little 
pupil  to  sing  several  of  the  popular  songs  of  his  native  city 
of  Naples,  and  to  perform  several  of  his  national  dances  ; 
watching  with  an  ever-new  delight  the  grace  and  ease  of 
her  movements,  and  the  quickness  with  which  she  caught 
at  his  every  hint  and  gesture. 

Occasionally,  Cherry  insisted  upon  making  Pantalon  join 
in  the  dance  ;  and  the  somewhat  sombre  face  of  the  Italian 


124  THE    PINK-SILK    DRESS. 

would  ripple  all  over  with  laughter  as  he  watched  her 
efforts  to  subdue  the  creature's  motions  to  grace  and  har 
mony,  and  to  cultivate  in  his  bestial  brain  her  own  innate 
love  of  those  divine  gifts. 

"  You  will  never  make  him  dance  as  if  of  heaven,  as  you 
do,  picciola,"  said  he  one  day ;  and  Cherry  suddenly  stood 
still,  and,  dropping  the  monkey's  paws,  came  to  her 
teacher's  side,  asking  eagerly,  — 

"Have  you  been  to  heaven  too?  and  did  you  see  me 
dance  there?" 

"  Padre  Johannes  says  we  all  came  from  heaven  ;  so  I 
suppose  I  did,  and  perhaps  Pantalon  also,"  said  the 
Italian  with  a  comical  grimace  :  "  but,  if  so,  I  have  long 
forgotten  what  I  saw  there.  Do  you  remember  heaven, 
picciola?" 

"Yes;  I  don't  know,"  slowly  replied  the  child  with 
the  weary  and  puzzled  look  she  so  often  wore.  "  Some 
times  I  do.  I  used  to  dance;  and  mamma  —  that  wasn't 
mammy  —  was  there :  but  there  was  a  naughty  lady  that 
slapped  me  ;  and  there  was  a  little  man  —  why,  it  was  Pan- 
talon,  wasn't  it?  Did  Pantalon  eat  some  cake  that  I  —  no, 
that  some  one  gave  him?  Oh!  I  don't  know  ;  and  I  am 
so  tired  !  I  guess  I'll  go  see  mammy  now,  and  lie  down  on 
the  bed." 


T1IE    PINK-SILK    DllESS.  1*25 

Giovanni  did  not  try  to  detain  the  child,  but,  after 
closing  the  door  behind  her,  remained  looking  at  it  as  if  he 
still  saw  the  object  of  his  thoughts,  while  an  expression  of 
perplexity  and  doubt  clouded  the  careless  good-humor  of 
his  face.  Presently,  however,  it  cleared;  and,  with  a  sig 
nificant  gesture  of  the  head,  he  muttered, — 

"What  then?  Is  it  my  business  or  my  fault?  Come, 
Pantalon  :  we  shall  sup." 

When  Cherry  appeared  the  next  day  in  Giovanni's 
room,  it  was  with  as  gay  and  untroubled  a  face  as  if  no 
haunting  memories  had  ever  vexed  her ;  and  Giovanni, 
who  liked  her  sunny  mood  much  the  best,  was  careful 
not  to  awaken  any  other.  He  played  for  her  to  dance  ; 
he  sang  with  her ;  he  told  her  stories  of  Italy,  and  the 
merry  life  he  had  lived  there  with  his  wife  and  child. 

"  And  my  little  Julietta,  like  you,  loved  music  and 
dancing,  and  sang  like  the  angels,"  said  he,  smoothing 
Cherry's  shining  curls. 

"Did  she?  Then  she  sings  in  heaven,  and  is  happy: 
and  by  and  by,  when  we  go  there,  we'll  see  her ;  won't 
we?" 

The  Italian  shook  his  head. 

"  You  may,  picciola ;    but   the  good   God,  if   he   takes 


l-'G  THE    PINK-SILK    DRESS. 

me  to  heaven,  must  make  me  so  changed,  that  Julietta 
could  no  longer  know  me,  or  I  her.  We  men  are  not 
as  little  maidens." 

Then,  with  a  sudden  change  of  mood,  the  Italian 
snatched  from  its  case  his  cherished  violin,  and  drew 
from  it  such  joyous  strains,  that  the  child,  clapping  her 
hands,  and  skipping  round  the  room,  cried, — 

u  It  laughs !  the  music  laughs,  and  makes  me  laugh 
too  !  And  Pantalon  —  see  poor  Pantalon  try  to  laugh,  and 
he  can't!" 

Giovanni  stopped  suddenly,  and  laid  down  his  violin. 
A  new  thought,  a  sudden  plan,  had  entered  his  head,  and 
made  his  breath  come  quick,  and  his  eyes  grow  bright. 
He  looked  attentively  at  the  child  for  a  moment,  and  then 
said,  — 

"  Julietta  used  to  wear  such  a  beautiful  dress,  and  go 
with  me  to  the  houses  of  rich  people  to  dance  ;  but  you 
dance  better  than  she  did,  picciola." 

"  Oh !  let  me  go,  and  wear  a  beautiful  dress.  I  don't 
like  this  dress  a  bit ! "  said  Cherry,  plucking  nervously  at 
the  coarse  and  tawdry  calico  frock  Mrs.  Ginniss"  had 
thought  it  quite  a  triumph  to  obtain  and  to  make  up. 

a  I   have    saved   two   of  Julietta's    dresses    for    love  of 


THE    PINK-SILK    DRESS.  127 

her.  You  shall  see  them,"  said  the  Italian  ;  and  from 
the  box  where  he  kept  his  clothes  he  presently  brought 
a  small  bundle,  and,  unfolding  it,  shook  out  two  littl'c 
frocks,  —  one  of  pink  silk,  covered  with  spangles  ;  the  oilier 
a  guy  brocade,  upon  whose  white  ground  tiny  rosebuds 
were  dotted  in  a  graceful  pattern.  Some  long  silk  stock 
ings,  and  white  satin  boots  with  red  heels,  and  blue  tassels 
at  the  ankle,  dropped  from  the  bundle  ;  and  from  one  of 
these  boots  Giovanni  drew  a  wreath  of  crushed  and  faded 
artificial  roses. 

u  All  these  were  given  her  by  the  beautiful  marchesa 
for  whom  she  was  named.  Many  times  we  have  been 
to  play  and  dance  before  her  palazzo  ;  and  she,  sending 
for  us  in,  has  given  the  little  one  a  dress  or  a  wreath,  or 
a  handful  of  confetti,  or  a  silver-piece  in  her  hand.  It 
was  when  the  marchesa  died  that  our  troubles  began ;  and 
in  three  months  more  the  little  Julietta  followed  her,  and 
Stephana  (that  was  my  wife)  went  from  me,  and —  But' 
see,  picciola !  is  it  not  a  pretty  dress?  Let  us  put  it  upon 
you,  and  it  shall  dance  the  Romaika  with  you  as  it  once 
did  with  her." 

Nothing  loath,  Cherry  hastened,  with  the  help  of  the 
Italian,  to  array  herself  iu  the  pink-silk  frock,  and  to 


128  THE    PINK-SILK   DRESS. 

exchange  her  coarse  shoes  for  the  silken  hose  and  satin 
boots  of  the  little  lost  Julietta.  Although  somewhat 
large,  the  clothes  fitted  better  than  those  Cherry  had  taken 
off;  and  when,  seizing  the  violin,  Giovanni  drew  a  long, 
warning  note,  the  little  dancer  took  her  position,  and 
pointed  her  tiny  foot  with  so  assured  and  graceful  an 
air,  that  the  Italian,  nodding  and  smiling,  cried  with 
enthusiasm,  — 

"Ah,  ah!  See  the  little  Taglioni !  Why  is  she  not 
upon  the  boards  of  La  Scala  ?  " 

What  this  might  mean  Cherry  could  not  guess,  nor 
greatly  cared  to  know.  She  understood  that  her  friend 
was  pleased,  and  her  little  heart  beat  high  with  vanity 
and  excitement.  She  danced  as  she  had  never  danced 
before  ;  and  at  the  end,  while  Giovanni  still  applauded, 
and  before  she  had  regained  her  breath,  the  child  was 
panting,  — 

"  I  want  to  go  and  dance  for  the  rich  ladies,  like  Juli 
etta  used  to  do,  and  wear  her  beautiful  dresses,  and  have 
a  wreath." 

"Why  not,  then?"  exclaimed  the  Italian  eagerly. 
"  Only  you  must  never  say  so  to  the  woman  above  there 
or  the  boy :  they  will  not  allow  it." 


THE   PINK-SILK   DRESS.  120 

"Won't  mammy  and  Teddy  like  it?  Then  I  can't  go. 
Oh,  dear!  Why  won't  they  like  it,  'Varny?" 

"  Because  they  can't  dance,  and  they  don't  want  you  to 
be  different  from  them ;  and  they  will  be  afraid  you  will 
lire  yourself.  They  don't  know  that  it  makes  you  well 
aud  happy  to  dance,  and  hear  music,  as  it  does  me  to 
make  it.  They  are  not  like  us,  these  people  above 
there." 

Cherry  looked  earnestly  in  his  face,  and  her  own  sud 
denly  flushed,  while  she  replied  indignantly,  — 

u  They're  real  good,  'Varny ;  and  I  love  them  same 
as  I  do  you  and  Pantalon.  Don't  you  love  them  ? " 

u  Oh !  but  I  adore  them,  picciola  ;  and  I  like  well  that 
you  should  place  me  and  Pantalon  beside  them.  But 
surely  they  do  not  dance,  or  love  music,  as  we  do." 

Cherry  shut  tight  her  lips,  and  shook  her  head  with  an 
uneasy  expression. 

u  Mammy  says  she  don't  believe  they  dance  in  heaven  : 
and  Teddy  says  it  wasn't  there  I  used  to  learn  ;  for  I  never 
went  anywhere  but  to  mammy's  room  since  I  was  borned." 

"  But  they  do  dance  in  heaven,  and  sing,  and  listen  to 
music;  aud  it  is  because  you  came  from  heaven  so  little 
while  ago  that  you  remember,  and  they  have  forgotten," 


130  THE   PINK-SILK    DRESS. 

said  Giovanni  positively.  "  And  it  is  right  thai  you  should 
love  these  things  ;  and  it  is  right  that  you  should  go  with  me, 
and  say  nothing  to  them  till  we  come  back.  I  will  ask  the 
good  woman  that  I  may  take  you  for  a  walk  in  a  day  or  two  ; 
and  I  will  carry  the  pretty  dress  and  the  violin  ;  and,  when 
we  are  away  from  the  house,  you  shall  put  it  on,  and  AVC 
will  go  and  dance  for  the  rich  people  a  little  while ;  and 
some  one  shall  give  you  beautiful  things,  and  much  money, 
as  they  did  Julietta  ;  and  then  we  will  come  home,  and  bring 
it  all  to  the  mammy,  and  she  will  be  so  happy,  and  see  that 
it  is  a  good  thing,  after  all,  to  dance." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  that  will  be  splendid  !  "  cried  Cherry,  clapping 
her  hands,  and  jumping  up  and  down.  "  I  will  save  every 
bit  of  the  candy,  and  all  the  beautiful  dresses,  and  the  roses, 
and  every  thing,  and  bring  them  to  mammy." 

"  And  the  money,  that  she  may  buy  bread  and  clothes 
and  wood,  and  not  have  to  work  so  hard  for  them  herself," 
suggested  Giovanni  artfully. 

"  Yes,  Teddy  gives  her  money ;  and  she  calls  him  her 
brave,  good  boy.  So  she'll  call  me  too,  pretty  soon  ;  won't 
she?" 

"  Truly  will  she  ;  but  remember  always,  picciola,  that 
she  nor  Teddy  must  know  any  thing  of  this,  or  they  will 
prevent  it  all.  You  won't  tell  them?" 


TITE    PINK-SILK    DRESS.  131 

u  No  ;  I  won't  tell,"  said  Cherry,  shutting  her  lips  very 
tight,  and  shaking  her  head  a  great  many  times.  u  Only 
we  must  go  very  quick,  or  else  I  might  forget ;  and,  when  I 
opened  my  mouth,  it  might  jump  out  before  I  knew.'* 

"  We  will  go  to-morrow  if  it  is  fine,"  said  Giovanni, 
after  a  moment  of  consideration  ;  and  Cherry,  after  chan 
ging  her  clothes,  returned  home  so  full  of  mystery  and  im 
portance,  that  unless  Mrs.  Ginniss  had  been  more  than 
usually  busy,  and  Teddy  obliged  to  hurry  with  his  supper 
and  go  directly  out  again,  one  or  the  other  must  have  sus 
pected  that  something  very  mysterious  was  working  in  the 
mind  of  their  little  pet. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

BEGINNING    A   NEW   LIFE. 

As  if  to  favor  Giovanni's  plot,  it  chanced,  that,  in  the 
morning  of  the  next  day,  Mrs.  Ginniss  received  a  sudden 
summons  to  the  bedside  of  Ann  Dolan,  the  friend  whose 
advice  had  led  to  Teddy's  being  placed  in  his  present 
situation. 

The  messenger  had  reported  that  Ann  was  "  very  bad  wid 
her  heart,  an'  the  life  was  knocked  out  intirely,  sure  : "  arid 
Mrs.  Ginniss  felt  herself  bound  to  hasten  to  the  help  of  her 
friend,  should  she  still  be  alive  ;  or  to  see  that  she  was 
"  waked  dacent "  if  dead.  Just  as  she  was  wondering 
if  it  was  best  to  take  Cherry  with  her,  or  to  leave  her 
locked  up  alone  until  her  return,  Giovanni  appeared  at  the 
door,  his  face  disposed  in  its  most  winning  smile,  and  his 
manner  as  respectful  as  if  he  had  been  addressing  the  mar- 
chesa  who  had  been  his  own  and  his  daughter's  patron. 

"  Will  my  good  neighbor  allow  that  the  little  girl  go  for  a 
walk  with  me  this  fine  morning?  "  asked  he.  "  I  would  like 
132 


BEGINNING    A    NEW    LIFE.  133 

to  show  her  the  flowers  and  the  swans  in  the  gardens  of  the 
city." 

"  An'  will  you  take  the  monkey  an*  the  grind-orgin  the 
day?"  asked  Mrs.  Ginniss  doubtfully. 

"  Indeed,  no  !  I  go  to  a  walk  to  enjoy  the  fine  time,  and 
to  see  the  flowers  and  the  swans,"  explained  Giovanni  in  his 
best  English,  and  with  a  proportion  of  bows  and  smiles  ; 
while  Cherry  stood  by,  her  little  face  full  of  surprise  and 
mystery,  not  unmingled  with  a  little  shame  as  she  felt  that 
her  good  mammy  was  being  deceived  and  misled  by  the 
wily  Italian. 

"  Faith,  thin,  Mr.  Jovarny,  it's  very  perlite  ye  are  iver 
an*  always  ;  but  I  don't  jist  feel  aisy  wid  the  child  out  uv  my 
sight.  Mabbe  she'd  betther  wait  till  night,  when  Teddy  can 
take  her  out." 

"  Oh,  let  me  go,  mammy !  I  want  to  go  with  'Varny, 
and  I'll  bring  you  "  — 

"Yes  ;  we'll  get  the  pretty  flowers  to  bring  to  mammy,  she 
would  say,"  interrupted  the  Italian  hastily  ;  and  Mrs.  Gin 
niss,  looking  down  at  the  little  anxious  face  and  pleading 
eyes,  found  her  better  judgment  suddenly  converted  into  a 
desire  to  please  her  little  darling  at  any  rate,  and  to  see  her 
smile  again  in  her  own  sunny  fashion. 


134  BEGINNING    A    NEW    LIFE. 

u  Sure,  an'  ye  shall  go,  'vourneen,  if  it's  that  bad  ye're 
wantin'  it,"  said  she,  stooping  to  take  the  child  in  her  arms  ; 
and,  as  Cherry  kissed  her  again  and  again,  she  added, — 

"•  An'  it's  well  ye  don't  ask  the  heart  out  uv  me  body  ;  for 
it's  inter  yer  hand  I'd  have  to  give  it,  colleen  bawn." 

Giovanni  looked  on,  his  half-shut,  black  eyes  glittering, 
and  a  wily  smile  wrinkling  his  sallow  cheek. 

"  Every  one  has  his  day,"  muttered  he  in  Italian 
"  Your's  to-day,  good  woman  ;  mine  to-morrow." 

Half  an  hour  later,  Cherry,  dressed  as  neatly  as  her  foster- 
mother's  humble  means  and  taste  would  allow,  and  her  face 
glowing  with  pleasure  and  excitement,  skipped  out  of  the 
door  of  the  tenement-house,  looking  like  the  fairy  princess 
in  a  pantomime  as  she  suddenly  emerges  from  the  hovel 
where  she  has  been  hidden. 

Giovanni  followed,  carrying  a  bundle,  and  his  violin 
wrapped  in  papers.  These,  he  explained  to  Mrs.  Ginniss, 
were  only  some  matters  he  had  to  leave  with  a  friend  as  he 
went  along  ;  but  he  should  not  go  into  any  house,  or  take  the 
little  girl  anywhere  but  for  the  walk  he  had  mentioned. 

"  Faix,  an'  it's  mighty  ginteel  ye  are,  aryvvay,  Misther 
Jovarny,"  said  the  Irishwoman,  watching  the  pair  from  the 
window  of  her  attic  as  they  walked  slowly  up  the  street. 


BEGINNING   A    NEW   LIFE.  135 

14  But  I'm  aft  her  wish  in*  I'd  said  no  whin  I  said  yis.  Nor 
yet  I  couldn't  tell  why,  more  than  that  Teddy'll  \>»,  mad  to. 
hear  she's  been*  wid  him.  But  the  b'y  hasn't  sinse  whiu  it's 
about  the  little  sisther  he's  talkin'.  He  thinks  the  ground 
isn't  good  enough  for  her  to  walk  on,  nor  goold  bright 
enough  for  her  to  wear." 

So  saying,  Mrs.  Ginniss  closed  the  window,  and,  throw 
ing  a  little  shawl  over  her  head,  locked  the  door,  leaving  the 
key  in  Teddy's  room,  and  hurried  away  to  her  sick  friend, 
with  whom  she  staid  till  nearly  night. 

Giovanni  and  Cherry,  meantime,  walked  gayly  on,  chat 
ting,  now  of  the  wonderful  things  about  them,  now  of  the 
yet  more  wonderful  scenes  they  were  to  visit.  At  a  confec 
tioner's  shop,  in  a  shady  by-street,  they  stopped  to  rest  for 
a  while  ;  and  the  Italian  provided  his  little  guest  with  ice 
creams,  cakes,  and  candies,  to  her  heart's  content. 

"  I  like  these  better  than  potatoes  and  pork-meat.  I  used 
to  eat  these  in  heaven,"  said  the  little  girl,  pausing  to  look 
at  a  macaroon,  and  then  finishing  it  with  a  relish. 

The  Italian  laughed. 

u  Canary-birds  do  not  feed  with  crows,"  said  he. 
"  When  we  are  rich,  picciola,  you  shall  never  eat  worse 
than  this." 


13G  BEGINNING    A    NEW    LIFE. 

"  Shall  we  be  rich  soon,  'Varny?"  asked  the  child 
eagerly. 

"  Upon  the  moment  almost,  if  you  will  dance  and  laugh, 
and  look  so  pretty  as  you  can,  always." 

"  But  we  needn't  stop  to  be  very  rich  before  we  go  anc. 
carry  some  of  the  nice  things  to  mammy,"  rejoined  Cherry 
anxiously. 

"  No,  no,  indeed  !  We  will  but  make  a  little  turn  in  the 
country,  and  come  back  princes.  But  mind  you  this,  pic- 
ciola  :  I  am  to  be  your  father  now,  or  all  the  same  ;  and  I 
shall  tell  every  one  that  you  are  my  own  little  girl :  so  you 
must  never  say,  '  Not  so.'  " 

"  But  mammy  said  my  father  was  dead,  and  Teddy  said 
so  too.  He  was  Michael  darlint." 

u  I  doubt  not  that  Signer  Michaelli  died,  and  has  gone  to 
glory  ;  but  I  strangely  doubt  if  he  were  thy  father,  picciola," 
said  the  Italian  with  a  grave  smile.  "  However  that  may 
be,  forget  that  you  have  ever  had  other  father  than  me,  and 
call  me  so  always  :  i  Mio  padre,'  you  must  say,  and  no  nioro 
'Varny.  Also,  too,  you  must  speak  in  Italian,  as  I  shall 
to  you  ;  and  never,  as  you  do  now,  in  English." 

u  But  mammy  and  Teddy  don't  know  Italian,"  said 
Cherry,  beginning  to  look  a  little  troubled. 


BEGINNING    A    NEW    LIFE.  137 

'"In  Rome,  do  as  the  Romans  do.'  "When  yon  are  again 
with  the  woman  and  boy,  speak  as  they  speak  :  with  me, 
speak  as  I  speak." 

Giovanni  said  this  more  decidedly  than  he  had  ever 
spoken  before,  and  Cherry  looked  quickly  up  at  him. 

"Is  that  the  way  you  talk  because  you  want  to  make 
believe  you  are  my  father?  "  asked  she. 

A  sudden  smile  shot  across  the  Italian's  face,  lighting  its 
dark  features  like  a  gleam  of  sunshine  sweeping  across  a 
pine-clad  mountain-land. 

"  Shame  were  it  to  me,  dear  little  heart,  if  to  be  thy 
father  were  to  make  thee  less  happy  than  thou  hast  been 
with  those  others,"  said  he  softly  in  Italian,  and  using  the 
form  of  address,  which,  in  almost  every  language  but  the 
English,  marks  a  different  and  more  tender  relation  from 
that  indicated  by  the  more  formal  plural  pronoun. 

"  You  will  be  happy  with  me  if  we  do  not  soon  revisit 
these  people  we  leave  behind?"  asked  he. 

The  child's  eyes  grew  large  and  deep  as  she  fixed  them 
upon  bis  face,  and  presently  asked,  — 

"  Are  you  going  with  me  to  try  to  find  heaven  again?" 

"  Perhaps  :  who  knows,  picciola?  The  heaven  you  miss 
may  come  to  you  more  easily  if  you  go  to  seek  it.  At  any 


138  BEGINNING    A    NEW    LIFE. 

rate,  I  will  carry  thee  no  farther  from  it.  But  come  :  we 
must  get  to  our  journey." 

Leaving  the  confectioner's  shop,  Giovanni  lingered  no 
longer  in  the  gay  streets,  or  even  upon  the  fresh  green  grass 
of  the  Common,,  where  Cherry  would  have  staid  to  play 
all  day.  Hurrying  across  it,  and  through  some  crowded 
streets,  the  Italian  entered  a  large  station-house,  where  stood 
the  train  of  cars,  already  half  filled  with  passengers  ;  while 
the  engine,  puffing  and  panting  with  impatience,  seemed  un 
willing  to  wait  a  moment  longer. 

Leaving  Cherry  in  the  ladies'  room,  the  Italian  bought 
his  tickets,  and  reclaimed  from  the  baggage-room,  where 
he  had  left  it,  his  organ,  with  Pantalon  chained  to  the 
top  of  it.  Then,  calling  the  child,  he  hurried  with  her 
into  the  cars,  and  selected  a  seat  behind  the  door,  in  the 
evident  wish  of  being  seen  as  little  as  possible. 

"  Now,  then,  Ciriegia  mia,  we  go  to  seek  our  fortune," 
said  he,  as  the  train  left  the  station,  and  began  to  rush 
through  the  suburbs  of  the  city,  scattering  little  dirty 
children,  vagrant  dogs,  leisurely  pigs,  and  dawdling  car 
riages  driven  by  honest  old  ladies,  from  its  track. 

Cherry  never  had  ridden  in  the  cars  before  ;  and  she 
clung  tight  to  the  sleeve  of  her  companion,  afraid  to 
move,  or  even  to  speak,  until  he  laughingly  asked,  — 


BEGINNING    A   NEW   LIFE.  139 

"It  does  not  fear,  the  poor  little  one,  does  it?" 

"  .No,  I  guess  not,  'Varuy,"  replied  tTjie  child  doubt 
fully  ;  but  the  Italian  sharply  said,  — 

"What  is  this  'Varny  you  say?     I  am  mio  padre." 

"  I  forgot.  Won't  I  tumble  out  of  this  carriage,  my 
father,  it  goes  so  quick?" 

"  Fear  nothing,  figlia  mia.  You  are  safe  with  ine  and 
with  Pantalon,"  said  the  Italian,  drawing  the  little  girl 
close  to  his  side  ;  while  the  monkey,  crouching  upon  the 
organ  at  their  feet,  chattered  his  own  promises  of  pro 
tection  and  comfort. 

With  'Toinette,  to  live  was  to  love  and  trust ;  and, 
cliuging  close  to  her  new  guardian's  side,  she  laid  her 
little  shining  head  upon  his  breast,  clinging  with  one 
hand  to  the  lappet  of  his  coat ;  and,  laughing  clown  at 
Pantalon,  she  fell  presently  asleep. 

At  night  the  Italian  left  the  train-,  and  took  lodgings 
at  a  hotel  near  the  centre  of  a  large  town.  His  little 
charge  —  tired,  hungry,  and  sleepy  —  was  very  glad  to 
have  supper,  and  to  be  allowed  to  go  to  bed,  where  she 
slept  soundly  until  summoned  the  next  morning  by  Gio 
vanni,  who  brought  her  some  breakfast  with  his  own 
ha  ads,  and,  placing  it  upon  the  table,  laid  a  bundle  of 
clothe/  beside  it. 


140  BEGINNING    A    NEW    LIFE. 

"Rise  and  eat,  carissima,"  said  he  gayly  ;  "and  then 
make  thyself  as  beautiful  as  the  morning  with  these  line 
clothes.  See,  here  are  roses  from  the  garden  for  a 
wreath  !  They  are  better  than  the  others.  When  thou 
art  ready,  come  out  to  me." 

He  left  the  room;  and  'Toinette,  rising,  made  a  hasty 
breakfast ;  and  then,  putting  on  the  brocade-silk  dress, 
and  placing  upon  her  head  the  wreath  Giovanni  had 
twisted  of  natural  flowers  for  her,  she  peeped  into  the 
glass,  arid  laughed  aloud  at  the  fanciful  and  beautiful 
image  that  met  her  eyes. 

"I  am  glad  I  look  so  pretty,"  murmured  she,  with  an 
innocent  delight  at  her  own  beauty,  that  was  not  vanity, 
although  it  might,  if  untrained,  lead  to  it. 

"Come,  Ciriegia,  are  you  never  ready?"  called  Gio 
vanni  from  the  other  side  of  the  door ;  and  Cherry, 
running  to  open  it,  exclaimed  m  Italian,  — 

"Oh,  see,  my  father!    am  I  not  beautiful?" 

"  Truly  so  ;  but  you  should  not  say  it,  bambma.  The 
charm  of  a  maiden  is  her  modesty,"  said  the  Italian 
gravely. 

"But,  if  it  is  true,  why  mustn't  I  say  so?"  a.sked 
Cherry  positively. 


BEGINNING   A   NEW   LIFE.  141 

'•  Many  things  that  we  know  are  never  to  be  said, 
Ciriegia.  But  come,  now :  you  are  to  dance  fir  it  for 
these  people,  and  they  will  make  no  charge  for  our  beds 
and  the  miserable  provender  they  have  given  us." 

As  he  spoke,  Giovanni  led  the  way  to  the  lower  hall 
of  the  hotel,  where  a  number  of  men  were  lounging, 
smoking,  or  talking ;  while  through  the  open  doors  of  the 
parlor  and  office  were  to  be  seen  some  ladies  and  gentle 
men,  idling  away  the  hour  after  breakfast,  before  proceed 
ing  to  their  business,  their  journey,  or  their  amusement. 

Placing  himself  in  the  centre  of  the  hall,  Giovanni, 
with  a  bow  to  the  company,  played  a  little  prelude,  and 
then  struck  into  the  lively  strains  of  the  cachuca. 

Cherry,  who  had  stood  looking  at  him,  her  head  slightly 
bent,  her  lips  apart,  eyes  and  ears  alert  to  catch  the 
signal  to  begin,  pointed  her  little  foot  at  the  precise  mo 
ment,  and,  holding  her  dress  in  the  tips  of  her  slender 
fingers,  slid  into  the  movement  with  a  grace  and  accuracy 
never  to  be  attained  except  by  vigorous  practice,  or  a 
temperament  as  sensitive  to  time  and  tune,  limbs  as  sup 
ple,  and  impulses  as  graceful,  as  were  those  of  this  gifted 
and  unfortunate  child. 

"See   there!  —  the   poor  little  thing!"    exclaimed  one 


142  BEGINNING    A   NEW   LIFE. 

of  the  ladies,  who  came  to  the  door  of  the  drawing-room 
to  see  the  performance. 

"How  can  you  say  poor  little  thing?"  asked  another. 
"  Don't  you  see  how  she  enjoys  it  herself?  That  smile 
is  not  the  artificial  grimace  of  a  ballet-dancer ;  and  DO 
eyes  ever  sparkled  so  joyously  to  order." 

"  Perhaps  she  does  enjoy  it ;  but  all  the  more  '  Poor  little 
thing ! '  say  I,"  rejoined  the  first  speaker,  adding  thought 
fully,  "  What  sort  of  training  for  a  woman  is  that?" 

"Oh,  well!  but  it  is  very  pretty  to  see  her;  and  she 
would  probably  be  running  in  the  streets,  or  doing  worse, 
if  she  did  not  dance ;  and  so  little  as  she  is !  It  is 
equal  to  the  theatre." 

The  speaker  drew  out  her  purse  as  she  spoke,  and  care 
lessly  threw  a  dollar-bill  towards  the  child,  who  had  finished 
her  dance,  and  stood  looking  round  with  an  innocent  smile, 
as  if  asking  for  applause  rather  than  reward. 

"  Gk>  and  take  it,  carissima  ;  and  then  hold  your  hand  to 
the  others  ;  each  will  give  you  something,"  said  Giovanni 
in  a  low  voice. 

"  How  much  we  shall  have  to  carry  to  mammy !  "  ex 
claimed  the  child  eagerly;  and,  as  she  gathered  iu  her 
harvest,  she  chattered  away,  always  in  Italian.  — 


BEGINNING    A    NEW   LIFE.  143 

"  And  more,  and  more,  and  more  !  O  my  father  !  how 
many  cents  they  give  me !  What  nice  people  they  are  ! 
Let  me  dance  some  more  for  them  ;  and  let  Pautalon  come 
down,  and  let  them  see  him." 

"  No,  no,  child  !  These  are  not  of  those  who  would  care 
for  Pautalon.  While  you  rest  by  and  by,  I  shall  take  him 
and  the  organ,  and  go  about  the  streets  ;  but  your  little  feet 
are  worth  many  Pantalons  to  me.  Come,  we  will  give 
them  the  tarantella  0s  they  have  done  so  well." 

Skipping  to  his  side,  with  a  childish  grace  more  attrac 
tive  than  the  studied  movements  of  the  most  accomplished 
actress,  Cherry  stuffed  the  proceeds  of  her  first  attempt  into 
the  pocket  of  her  guardian,  and  then,  throwing  herself  into 
position,  went  through  the  wild  and  grotesque  movements 
of  the  tarantella,  with  a  life  and  freshness  that  drew  from 
the  spectators  a  burst  of  applause  and  surprise. 

u  That  will  do.  We  must  not  give  them  too  much  at 
once,  lest  the  wonder  come  to  an  end.  Make  the  pretty 
kiss  of  the  hand,  iiglia  mia,  and  run  up  the  stairs  to  your 
own  little  room." 

Cherry  obeyed,  calling  back,  as  she  disappeared,  "  Tell 
them  I  will  dance  some  more  for  them  by  and  by  if  they 
want  me  to." 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

WHOLESALE    MURDER. 

IN  the  course  of  that  day,  Giovanni  and  his  little  danseuse 
visited  all  the  principal  public  places  in  the  town,  and  also 
several  of  the  best  private  houses  ;  and,  at  all,  the  perform 
ances  of  the  child  called  forth  the  surprise,  delight,  and 
admiration  of  those  who  witnessed  them.  Nor  were  more 
substantial  proofs  of  their  approval  wanting ;  so  that  at 
night,  when  Giovanni  counted  up  his  gains,  he  found  them 
so  large,  that  he  cried,  while  embracing  poor  weary  little 
Cherry,  — 

"  O  blessed,  blessed  moment  when  tliou  didst  cross  my 
path,  Ciriegia  carissima  !  " 

"  Now  can't  we  go  home  to  mammy?  I  am  so  tired, 
and  my  head  feels  sick  !  "  moaned  the  child,  laying  the  poor 
aching  little  head  upon  his  shoulder. 

Giovanni  looked  down  at  the  pale  face,  and,  meeting  the 
languid  eyes,  felt  a  pang  of  conscience  and  pity. 

"  Thou  art  tired,  bambiua  povera  mia,"   said  he  kindly. 
144 


WHOLESALE    MUliDER.  145 

"  Another  day,  we  will  be  more  careful.  Li<  down  IIOAV, 
and  sleep  for  a  while.  We  go  again  in  the  steam-carriage 
to-night." 

Cherry  climbed  upon  the  bed  without  reply,  and  in  a 
usornent  was  fast  asleep.  The  Italian  drew  the  coverings 
<  i  bout  her,  arid  stooped  to  kiss  the  pale  cheek,  where  showed 
already  a  dark  circle  beneath  the  eye,  and  a  painful  con 
traction  at  the  corner  of  the  mouth. 

*'  Poveracita  ! "  murmured  he.  "But  soon  we  will  have 
money  enough  to  go  home  to  the  father-land,  and  then  all 
will  be  well  with  her  as  with  me." 

Three  hours  later,  he  came  to  arouse  the  child,  and  pre 
pare  her  to  renew  the  journey. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  tired  !  I  want  to  sleep  some  more  so 
bad,  'Varny  !  —  no,  my  father,  I  mean.  I  don't  want  to  go 
somewhere,"  said  she  piteously,  closing  her  eyes,  and  strug 
gling  to  lay  her  head  again  upon  the  pillow.  Giovaiin' 
hesitated  for  a  moment ;  and  then,  never  knowing  that  the 
decision  was  one  of  life  and  death,  the  question  of  a  whole 
future  career,  he  determined  to  pursue  his  plan  in  spite  of 
that  plaintive  entreaty,  and,  hastily  wrapping  a  shawl  about 
the  child,  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  carried  her  down  stairs. 

The  organ   and  Pantalou   waited  in   the  hall  below ;    and 
10 


146  WHOLESALE    MURDER. 

Giovanni,  setting  Cherry  upon  her  feet,  shouldered  the 
organ,  and,  taking  the  little  girl  by  the  hand,  led  her  out 
into  the  quiet  street,  where  lay  the  light  of  a  full  moon, 
making  the  night  more  beautiful  than  day.  Cherry's  drowsy 
eyes  flew  wide  open  ;  and,  looking  up  in  Giovanni's  face 
with  eager  joy,  she  cried,  — 

"  Oh !  now  we're,  going  back  to  heaven  ;  aren't  we,  my 
father?  It  was  bright  and  still  like  this  in  heaven  ;  and  I 
saw  a  star,  and  —  and  then  the  naughty  lady  struck  me"  — 

"  Peace,  little  one  !  I  know  not  of  what  you  speak,  nor 
any  thing  of  heaven,"'  said  the  Italian  in  a  troubled  voice  ; 
and  the  child,  hurrying  along  at  his  side,  raised  her  face 
silently  to  the  summer  sky,  seeking  there,  perhaps,  the 
answer  to  the  questions  forever  stirring  in  her  struggling 
soul. 

A  little  later,  and  the  swift  train,  flying  through  the 
sleeping  land,  bore  away  the  travellers  ;  while  Giovanni, 
settling  himself  as  easily  as  possible,  laid  the  head  of  his 
little  Ciriegia  upon  his  breast,  tenderly  smoothed  down  her 
silky  curls,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  bright  eyes,  tha; 
frightened  him  with  the  intensity  of  their  gaze. 

u  Sleep,  carissima  mia,  sleep,"  murmured  he  soothingly  ; 
u  sleep,  and  forget  thy  weariness  and  thy  memories." 


WHOLESALE    MURDER.  147 

"  I  can't  sleep  now,  my  father.  It  seems  to  me  that  we 
are  going  to  heaven  ;  and  I  want  to  be  awake  to  see  —  the 
lady  "  — 

The  words  faltered,  and  died  upon  her  lips.  The  beau- 
tiful  image  of  her  mother,  fading  slowly  from  her  memory, 
seemed  already  a  vision  so  vague,  that  to  name  it  were  to 
lose  it,  —  an  idea  too  precious  and  too  impalpable  to  put 
in  words.  The  past,  with  all  its  love  and  joy  and  beauty, 
was  becoming  for  our  'Toiuette  what  we  may  fancy  heaven 
is  to  a  little  baby,  whose  solemn  eyes  and  earnest  gaze 
seem  forever  attempting  to  recall  the  visions  of  celestial 
beauty  it  has  left  for  the  pale,  sad  skies,  and  mournful 
sounds  of  earth. 

On  rushed  the  train  through  the  quiet  night,  waking  wild 
echoes  in  the  woods,  and  leaving  them  to  whisper  themselves 
again  to  sleep  when  it  had  passed  ;  lighting  dark  valleys, 
that  the  moonlight  left  unlighted,  with  its  whirling  banner  of 
ilame  and  sparks,  and  its  hundred  blazing  windows  ;  mov 
ing  across  the  holy  calm  of  midnight  like  some  strange  and 
troubled  vision,  some  ugly  nightmare,  that  for  the  moment 
changes  peace  and  rest  to  horror  and  affright,  and  then 
passes  again  to  the  dim  and  ghostly  Dreamland,  whose  iron- 
tier  crowds  our  daily  life  on  every  hand,  and  whence  forever 


148  WHOLESALE    MURDER. 

peep  and  beckon  the  mysteries  that  perplex  and  haunt  the 
human  mind. 

On  and  on  and  on,  through  misty  lowland  and  shadowy 
wood,  and  over  shining  rivers,  and  through  sleeping  ham 
lets,  and  winding,  snake-like,  between  great  round  hills  and 
along  deep  mountain-gorges,  until  the  wild,  bright  eyes  that 
watched  beneath  Cherry's  matted  curls  grew  soft  and  dim  ; 
and  at  last  the  white  lids  fell,  and  the  curve  of  the  sad  lips 
relaxed  beneath  the  kiss  of  God's  mildest  messenger  to 
man,  —  the  spirit  of  sleep. 

As  for  Giovanni,  he  long  had  slumbered  heavily;  and 
even  Pantalon,  whose  bright  eyes  were  seldom  known  to 
close,  was  now  curled  up  beneath  the  organ-covering, 
dreaming,  perhaps,  of  the  nut -groves  and  spice  -  islands 
where  he  had  once  known  liberty  and  youth. 

Just  then  it  came,  —  a  crash  as  if  heaven  and  earth  had  met ; 
a  wild,  deep  cry,  made  up  of  all  tones  of  human  agony  arid 
fright ;  the  shriek  of  escaping  steam  ;  the  rending  and  splinter 
ing  of  wood  and  iron  ;  destruction,  terror,  pain,  and  death,  all 
mingled  in  o  le  awful  moment.  Then  those  who  had  escaped 
unhurt  began  the  sad  and  terrible  task  of  withdrawing 
from  the  ruin  the  maimed  and  bleeding  bodies  of  those  who 
yet  lived,  the  crushed  remains  and  fragments  of  those  who 


WHOLESALE    MURDER.  149 

had  been  killed  in  the  moment  of  the  encounter :  and,  in  all 
the  bewildering  confusion  of  the  scene,  none  had  eyes  for 
the  little  childish  figure,  who,  hurled  from  the  splintered  car, 
lay  for  a  while  stunned  and  shaken  among  the  soft  grass 
where  she  had  fallen,  and  then,  staggering  to  her  feet,  fled 
wildly  away  into  the  dim  forest-land. 


CHAPTER     XVITT. 

DORA   DARLING. 

THE  sun  was  setting  upon  the  day  succeeding  that  of  tho 
great  railroad  accident,  that,  for  weeks,  filled  the  whole  land 
with  horror  and  indignation,  when  a  young  girl,  driving 
rapidly  along  a  country-road  at  a  point  about  five  miles  dis 
tant  from  the  scene  of  the  disaster,  met  a  child  walking 
slowly  toward  her,  whose  disordered  dress,  bare  head,  and 
wild,  sweet  face,  attracted  her  attention  and  curiosity. 

Checking  her  spirited  horse  with  some  difficulty,  the 
young  girl  looked  back,  and  found  that  the  child  had 
stopped,  and  stood  watching  her. 

"  See  here,  little  girl !  "  called  she.  "  Are  you  lost?  Is 
any  thing  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

The  child  fixed  her  solemn  eyes  upon  the  face  of  the 
questioner,  but  made  no  answer. 

"  Come  here,  sissy  !  I  want  to  talk  to  you  ;  and  I  can't 
turn  round  to  come  to  you.  Come  here  !  " 

The   little  girl  slowly  obeyed    the    kind  command,    and 

150 


DORA    DARLING.  151 

5-tood  presently  beside  the  wagon,  her  pale  face  upraised, 
her  startled  eyes  intently  fixed  upon  the  clear  a  ad  honest 
ones  bent  to  meet  them. 

u  What  is  your  name,  little  girl?  " 

"  Sunshine/'  said  the  child  vaguely  ;  and  her  eyes  dropped 
from  the  face  of  her  questioner  to  fix  themselves  upon  the 
far  horizon,  where  hung  already  the  evening-star,  pale  and 
trembling,  as  it  had  hung  upon  the  evening  of  'Toinettc 
Legrange's  birthday  ten  months  before.  Was  it  a  sudden 
association  with  the  star  and  the  hour  that  had  suggested  to 
the  heart  of  the  desolate  child  this  name,  so  long  forgotten, 
once  so  appropriate,  now  so  strange  and  sad  ? 

"  Sunshine?  "  replied  the  young  girl  wonderingly.  "  You 
don't  look  like  it  a  bit.  Where  do  you  belong?  and  where 
are  you  going  ?  " 

The  child's  eyes  travelled  back  from  Dreamland,  and 
rested  wistfully  upon  the  kind  face  above  her. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  she  sadly.  "  I  want  to  go  to 
heaven  ;  but  I've  forgot  the  way." 

u  To  heaven  !  You  poor  little  thing,  have  you  no  home 
short  of  that?" 

"  I  don't  know.     I  wish  I  had  some  water." 

u  You  had  better  jump  into  the  wagon,  and  come  home 


iOZ  DORA    DVRLING. 

with  me,  Sunshine,  if  that  is  your  name.  Something  has 
got  to  be  done  for  you  right  away." 

The  child,  still  looking  at  her  in  that  strange  and  solemn 
manner,  asked  suddenly,  — 

"Who  are  you?" 

"I?  Oh!  I'm  Dora  Darling;  and  I  live  about  five 
miles  from  here.  Jump  in  quick ;  for  it  is  growing  dark, 
and  we  must  be  at  home  for  supper." 

As  she  spoke,  she  leaned  down,  and  gave  a  hand  to 
the  little  girl,  who  mechanically  took  it,  and  clambered 
into  the  carriage.  Dora  lifted  her  to  the  seat,  and  held 
her  there,  with  one  arm  about  her  waist,  saying  kindly, — 

"  Hug  right  up  to  me,  you  poor  little  thing !  and  hold 
on  tight.  We'll  be  at  home  in  half  an  hour,  or  less.  — 
Now,  Pope ! " 

The  impatient  horse,  feeling  the  loosened  rein,  and 
hearing  his  own  name,  darted  away  at  speed ;  whirling 
the  light  wagon  along  so  rapidly,  that  the  child  clung 
convulsively  to  her  new  protector,  murmuring,  — 

UT  guess  I  shall  spill  out  of  this,  and  get  kilt." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  won't,  Sunshine !  I  shall  hold  you  in, 
You're  not  Irish,  are  you?" 

"What's  that?" 


DORA    DARLING.  153 

•'  Why,  Irish,  you  know.  You  said  '  kilt '  just  now, 
instead  of  '  killed,'  as  we  do." 

The  child  made  no  reply  ;  but  her  head  drooped  upon 
Dora's  shoulder  yet  more  heavily,  and  her  eyes  closed. 

"Are  you  sick,  little  girl?  or  only  tired?"  asked  Dora, 
looking  anxiously  down  into  the  colorless  face,  over  which 
the  evening  breeze  was  gently  strewing  the  tangled  curls, 
as  if  to  hide  it  from  mortal  view,  while  the  poor,  worn 
spirit  fled  away  to  peace  and  rest. 

u  Sunshine  !  "  exclaimed  Dora,  gently  moving  the  heavy 
head  that  still  drooped  lower  and  lower,  until  now  the 
face  was  hidden  from  view. 

"  She  has  fainted  !  "  said  Dora,  looking  anxiously  about 
her.  No  house  and  no  person  were  in  sight,  nor  any 
stream  or  pond  of  water ;  and  the  young  girl  decided 
that  the  wisest  course  would  be  to  drive  home  as  rapidly 
as  possible,  postponing  all  attempt  to  revive  her  little 
patient  until  her  arrival  there. 

Without  checking  the  horse,  she  dragged  from  under 
the  seat  a  quilted  carriage-robe,  and  spread  it  in  the  bot 
tom  of  the  wagon,  arranging  a  paper  parcel  as  a  pillow. 
Then,  laying  poor  Sunshine  upon  this  extemporized  couch, 
she  took  off  her  own  light  shawl,  and  covered  her ;  leaving 


154  DORA    DAKLING. 

exposed  only  the  face,  white  and  lovely  as  the  marble 
statue  recumbent  upon  a  little  maiden's  tomb. 

'•  Now,  Pope  !  "  cried  Dora,  with  one  touch  of  the  whip 
upon  the  glossy  Launch  of  the  powerful  beast,  who,  at 
sound  of  that  clear  voice,  neighed  reply,  and  darted  for 
ward  at  the  rate  of  twelve  good  miles  an  hour ;  so  that, 
in  considerably  less  than  the  promised  time,  Dora  skil 
fully  turned  the  corner  from  the  road  into  a  green  country 
lane,  and,  a  few  moments  after,  stopped  before  the  door 
of  an  old-fashioned  one-story  farm-house,  painted  red, 
with  a  long  roof  sloping  to  the  ground  at  the  back,  an 
open  well  with  a  sweep  and  bucket,  and  a  diamoud-paned 
dairy-window  swinging  to  and  fro  in  the  faint  breeze. 
Around  the  irregular  door-stone,  the  grass  grew  close  and 
green  ;  while  nodding  in  at  the  window,  and  waving  from 
the  low  eaves,  and  clambering  upon  the  roof,  a  tangle  of 
white  and  sweet-brier  roses,  of  woodbine  and  maiden's- 
bower,  lent  a  rare  grace  to  the  simple  home,  and  loaded 
the  air  with  a  cloud  of  delicate  perfume. 

A  young  man,  lounging  upon  the  doorstep,  started  to 
his  feet  as  the  wagon  came  dashing  up  the  lane,  and  was 
going  to  open  the  gate  of  the  barn-yard ;  but  Dora 
stopped  before  the  open  door,  and  called  to  him,  — 


DORA    DARLING.  !•"><"> 

"  Karl !     Come   here,   please." 

44  Certainly.  I  was  running  out  of  the  way  for  fear  of 
being  ground  to  powder  beneath  your  chariot-wheels  ;  for 
I  said  to  myself,  '  Surely  the  driving  is  as  the  driving 
of  Jehu,  the  son  of  Nimshi.'  " 

"  I  shouldn't  have  driven  so  fast ;   but  —  see  here  !  " 

She  pulled  away  the  shawl  as  she  spoke,  and  showed 
to  the  young  man,  who  now  stood  beside  the  carriage, 
the  still  inanimate  form  of  the  little  waif  at  her  feet. 

u  Phew  !     What's  that?  and  where  did  you  get  it?" 

"  A  little  girl  that  I  met ;  lost,  I  think.  I  took  her  into 
the  buggy,  and  then  she  fainted,  and  I  laid  her  down," 
rapidly  explained  Dora ;  adding,  as  she  raised  the  little 
figure  in  her  arms,  — 

"  Take  her  in,  and  lay  her  on  the  bed  in  the  rosy- 
room." 

"Poor  little  thing!  She's  not  dead,  is  she,  Dora?'' 
asked  the  young  man  softly,  as  he  took  the  child  in  his 
arms  and  entered  the  house,  followed  by  Dora. 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  think  not ;  only  fainted.  I  suppose  there's 
hot  water,  for  a  bath,  in  the  kitchen." 

As  she  spoke,  they  entered  the  sitting-room,  —  a  cool, 
shady  apartment,  with  a  great  beam  crossing  the  ceiling, 
and  deep  recesses  to  the  windows,  with  seats  in  them. 


156  DORA    DARLING. 

At  the  farther  side,  Dora  threw  open  the  door  of  a  little 
bedroom,  whose  gay-papered  walls  and  flowered  chintz 
furniture,  not  to  speak  of  a  great  sweet-brier  bush  tapping 
and  scratching  at  the  window,  with  all  its  thousand  sharp 
little  fingers,  gave  it  a  good  right  to  be  called  the  rosy- 
room.  Dora  hastily  drew  away  the  bright  counterpane, 
and  nodded  to  Karl,  who  laid  the  little  form  he  carried 
tenderly 'upon  the  bed. 

At  this  moment,  another  door  into  the  sitting-room 
opened  ;  and  a  girl,  somewhat  older  than  Dora,  put  in  her 
head,  looked  aboul  for  a  moment,  and  then  came  curi 
ously  toward  the  door  of  the  rosy-room. 

"'  I  thought  I  heard  you,  Dora,"  said  she.  "  What  are 
you  doing  in  here  ?  Why  !  —  who's  that  ?  " 

"  O  Kitty !  can  you  warm  a  little  of  that  broth  we 
had  for  dinner,  to  give  her?  She's  just  starved,  I  really 
believe.  And  is  there  any  ammonia  in  the  house?  —  smell 
ing-salts,  you  know.  Didn't  aunt  have  some  ? "  asked 
Dora  rapidly. 

"I  believe  so.  But  where  did  you  get  this  child? 
Who  is  she?" 

"Run,  Kitty,  and  get  the  salts  first.  We'll  tell  you 
afterward." 


DORA    DARLING.  1 

"What  shall  1  do,  Dora?"  interposed  the  young  imm  ; 
aud  Kitty  ran  upon  her  errand,  while  Dora  promptly 
replied,  — 

"Open  the  window,  and  bring  some  cold  water;  and 
then  a  little  wine  or  brandy,  if  we  have  any." 

"  Enough  for  this  time,  at  any  rate,"  said  Karl,  hur 
rying  away,  and  returning  with  both  water  and  wine 
just  as  Kitty  appeared  with  the  salts  ;  but  it  was  Dora 
who  applied  the  remedies,  and  with  a  skill  and  steadiness 
that  would  have  seemed  absolutely  marvellous  to  one 
unacquainted  with  the  young  girl's  previous  history  and 
training. 

u  She's  coming  to  herself.  You'd  better  both  go  out 
of  sight,  and  let  her  see  only  me.  Kitty,  will  you  look 
to  the  broth  ? "  whispered  Dora ;  and  Karl,  taking  his 
sister  by  the  sleeve,  led  her  out,  softly  closing  the  door 
after  them. 

"  Dora  does  like  to  manage,  I  must  say.  Now,  do 
tell  me  at  last  who  this  child  is,  and  where  she  came 
from,  and  what's  going  to  be  done  with  her,"  said  Kitty 
as  they  reached  the  kitchen. 

"  Why  shouldn't  she  like  to  manage,  when  she  can  do 
it  so  well?  I  can  tell  you,  Miss  Kitty,  if  she  hadn't  man- 


li)S  DORA    DARLING. 

aged  to  some  purpose  on  one  occasion,  you  wouldn't  have 
had  a  brother  to-day  to  plague  you." 

The  girl's  dark  eyes  grew  moist  as  she  turned  them 
upon  him,  saying  warmly,  — 

"  I  know  it,  Charley  ;  and  I  would  love  her  for  that,  il' 
nothing  else :  but  I  can't  forget  she's  almost  a  year 
younger  than  I  am,  and  ought  not  to  expect  to  take  the 
lead  in  every  thing." 

"  Pooh,  Kit-cat,  don't  be  ridiculous !  Get  the  soup, 
and  put  it  over  the  fire ;  and  I'll  tell  you  all  I  know 
about  our  little  guest." 

"I  let  the  fire  go  down  when  tea  was  ready,  it  is  so 
warm  to-night,"  said  Kitty,  raking  away  the  ashes  in 
the  open  fireplace,  and  drawing  together  a  few  coals. 

"  That  will  do.  You  only  want  a  cupful  or  so  at 
once,  and  you  can  warm  it  in  a  saucepan  over  those 
coals." 

"  Dear  me  !  I  guess  I  know  how  to  do  as  much  as  that 
without  telling.  Sit  down  now,  and  let  me  hear  about 
the  child." 

So  Karl  dropped  into  the  wooden  arm-chair  beside  the 
hearth,  and  told  his  story ;  while  Kitty,  bustling  about, 
warmed  the  broth,  moved  the  tea-pot  and  covered  dish  of 


DORA    DARLING.  159 

toast  nearer  to  the  remnant  of  fire,  waved  a  few  flies  off 
the  neat  tea-table,  and  drove  out  an  intrusive  chicken, 
who,  before  going  to  roost,  was  evidently  determined  to 
secure  a  dainty  bit  for  supper  from  the  saucer  of  bread 
and  milk  set  in  the  corner  for  pussy. 

"  If  the  broth  is  ready,  I'll  take  it  in,"  said  Karl,  as 
his  sister  removed  it  from  the  fire. 

"  Well,  here  it  is  ;  and  do  tell  Dora  to  come  to  sup 
per,  or  at  least  come  yourself.  I  want  to  get  cleared 
away  some  time." 

"  I'll  tell  her,"  said  Karl  briefly,  as  he  took  the  little 
bowl  of  broth,  set  it  in  a  plate,  and  laid  a  silver  spoon 
beside  it. 

"  How  handy  he  is !  just  like  a  woman,"  said  Kitty 
to  herself  as  her  brother  left  the  room ;  and  then,  going 
out  into  the  sink-room,  she  finished  washing  and  putting 
away  the  "  milk-things,"  —  a  process  interrupted  by  the 
arrival  of  Dora  with  her  little  charge. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

A   CHAMBER   OF    MEMORIES. 

u  How  is  she  now,  Dora?  "  asked  Karl,  softly  opening  the 
door  of  the  rosy-room. 

"  Better.  You  can  come  in  if  you  want  to.  Have  you 
got  the  broth  ?  " 

"  Yes  :   here  it  is." 

"  That's  nice.  Now  hold  her  up,  please,  this  way,  while 
I  feed  her.  See,  little  Sunshine !  here  is  some  nice  broth 
for  you.  Take  a  little,  won't  you?  " 

The  pale  lips  slightly  opened,  and  Dora  deftly  slipped 
the  spoon  between  them.  The  effect  was  instantaneous ; 
and,  as  the  half-starved  child  tasted  and  smelled  the  nour 
ishing  food,  she  opened  wide  her  eyes,  and,  fixing  them 
upon  the  cup,  nervously  worked  her  lips,  and  half  extended 
her  poor  little  hands,  wasted  and  paled  by  even  two  days 
of  privation  and  fatigue. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Dora,  this  child  has  had  a  mighty 
narrow  chance  of  it,"  said  Karl  aside,  as  Dora  patiently 

160 


A    CHAMBER    OF    MEMORIES.  101 

administered  the  broth,  waiting  a  moment  between  each 
spoonful. 

u  Yes,"  replied  she  softly.  "  I  am  so  glad  I  met  her !  It 
was  a  real  providence." 

"For  her?" 

'"  For  me  as  much,"  returned  Dora  simply.  "  It  is  so 
pleasant  to  be  able  to  do  something  again  ! " 

"•  You  miss  your  wounded  and  invalid  soldiers,  and  find 
it  very  dull  here,"  said  Karl  quickly,  as  he  glanced  sharply 
into  the  open  face  of  the  young  girl. 

"  Hush,  Karl !  don't  talk  now :  it  will  disturb  her.  Is 
tea  ready  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  Kitty  sent  word  for  you  to  come.  Run  along, 
and  I  will  stay  with  the  chick  till  you  come  back." 

"  No  :  I  can't  leave  her  yet.  You  go  to  supper,  and  per 
haps,  when  you  are  done,  I  will  leave  you  with  her  ;  or  Kitty 
can  stay,  and  I  will  clear  away." 

"  Won't  you  let  me  stay  now  ? "  asked  the  young  man 
hesitatingly. 

"  No.     Here,  take  the  bowl,  and  run  along." 

"  'Just  as  you  say,  not  as  I  like,'  I  suppose,"  said  Karl, 
laughing ;  and,  taking  the  bowl,  he  went  softly  out. 

u  Now,  little   girl,   you   feel   better,   don't  you?"   asked 
li 


102  A   CHAMBER   OF    MEMORIES. 

Dora  cheerily,  as  che  laid  the  heavy  head   back  upon   the 
pillow,  and  tenderly  smoothed  away  the  tangled  hair. 

"  Si,  signora,"  murmured  Giovanni's  pupil. 

"What's  that?  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  Say  it 
again,  won't  you?" 

But  the  child  only  fixed  her  dreamy  eyes  upon  the  face 
of  the  questioner,  with  no  effort  at  reply ;  and  then  the  lids 
began  slowly  to  close. 

"  Now,  before  you  go  to  sleep,  Sunshine,  I  am  going  to 
take  you  up  stairs,  and  put  you  in  my  own  bed,  because  I 
sha'n't  want  to  leave  you  alone  to-night ;  and  no  one  sleeps 
here.  Wait  till  I  fold  this  shawl  round  you,  and  then  put 
your  arms  about  my  neck.  There  :  now  we'll  go." 

She  lifted  the  child  as  she  spoke,  and  carried  her  again 
into  the  front  entry,  and  up  the  square  staircase  to  a 
cottage-chamber  with  white,  scoured  floor,  common  pine 
furniture,  the  cheapest  of  white  earthern  toilet-sets,  and 
nothing  of  expense  or  luxury  to  be  found  within  its  four 
whitewashed  walls,  and  yet  a  room  that  gave  one  a  feeling 
of  satisfaction  and  peace  not  always  inhabiting  far  wider 
and  more  costly  chambers  :  for  the  little  bed  was  artistically 
composed,  and  covered  with  snow-white  dimity,  as  was  the 
table  between  the  windows,  and  the  cushion  of  the  wooden 


A    CHAMBER    OF    MEMORIES.  163 

rocking-chair  ;  while  curtains  of  the  same  material,  escaped 
from  their  tricolored  fastenings,  floated  in  upon  the  soft 
breeze  like  great  sails,  or  the  draperies  of  twilight  spirits 
departing  before  mortal  presence. 

In  the  fireplace  stood  a  large  pitcher,  filled  with  common 
flowers,  fresh  and  odorous  ;  and  upon  the  high  mantle-shelf, 
and  all  around  the  room,  was  disposed  a  collection  of  the 
oddest  ornaments  that  ever  decked  a  young  girl's  sleeping- 
chamber.  Among  them  we  will  but  pause  to  mention  two 
muskets,  the  one  bent,  the  other  splintered  at  the  stock  ; 
four  swords,  each  more  or  less  disabled  ;  an  officer's  sash  ; 
three  sets  of  shoulder-straps ;  a  string  of  army-buttons, 
each  with  a  name  written  upon  a  strip  of  paper,  and  tied 
to  the  eye ;  two  or  three  dozen  bone  rings,  of  more  or  less 
elaborate  workmanship,  disposed  upon  the  branches  of  a 
little  tree  carved  of  pine ;  a  large  collection  of  crosses, 
hearts,  clasped  hands,  dogs'- heads,  and  other  trinkets,  in 
bone,  some  white,  and  some  stained  black ;  a  careful  draw 
ing  of  a  crooked  and  grotesque  old  negro,  in  a  frame  of 
carved  wood  ;  and,  finally,  a  suit  of  clothes  hung  against 
the  wall  in  the  position  of  a  human  figure,  consisting  of  a 
jaunty  scarlet  cap,  with  a  little  flag  of  the  United  States 
fastened  to  the  front  by  an  army-badge  ;  a  basque,  skirt, 


164  A   CHAMBER   OF    MEMORIES. 

and  trousers  of  blue  cloth,  with  a  worn  and  elk  Jisy  pair  of 
boots  below.  From  a  belt  fastened  across  the  waist  hung 
a  little  barrel,  a  flask,  and  by  a  wide  ribbon  of  red,  white, 
and  blue,  a  boatswain's  silver  whistle. 

Singular  ornaments,  we  have  said,  for  a  young  girl's 
sleeping-room,  and  yet,  in  this  case,  touchingly  appropriate 
and  harmonious :  for  they  were  the  keepsakes  given  to  the 
daughter  of  the  regiment  by  the  six  hundred  brave  men, 
who  each  loved  her  as  his  own  ;  they  were  the  mementoes 
of  a  year  in  Dora  Darling's  life,  of  such  vivid  experiences, 
that  it  threatened  to  make  all  the  years  that  should  come 
after  pale  and  vapid  in  comparison. 

Just  now,  however,  all  the  girl's  strong  sympathies  were 
aroused  and  glowing ;  and  as  she  tenderly  cared  for  the 
child  so  strangely  placed  within  her  hands,  and  finally  laid 
her  to  sleep  in  the  clover-scented  sheets  of  the  fair  white 
bed,  she  felt  happier  than  she  had  for  months  before. 

A  light  tap  at  the  door,  and  Kitty  entered. 

"  I'll  stay  with  her  while  you  go  and  eat  supper.  Charley 
said  he'd  come  ;  but  I'd  like  well  enough  to  sit  down  a  little 
while.  My  !  —  she's  pretty-looking  ;  isn't  she  ?  " 

"  The  prettiest  child  I  ever  saw,"  replied  Dora,  with  her 
usual  decision  ;  and  then  the  two  girls  stood  for  a  moment 


A    CHAMBER   OF    MEMORIES.  1G5 

looking  down  at  the  delicate  little  face,  where,  since  the  food 
and  bath  Dora  had  administered,  a  bright  color  showed 
itself  upon  the  cheeks  and  lips  ;  while  the  short,  thick  curls, 
carefully  brushed,  clustered  around  the  white  forehead, 
defining  its  classic  shape,  and  contrasting  with  its  pearly 
tints. 

"  Who  can  she  be?  "  asked  Kitty  in  a  whisper. 

"Some  sort  of  foreigner,  —  French  maybe,  or  perhaps 
Italian.  She  has  talked  considerably  since  I  gave  her  the 
broth  ;  but  I  can't  make  out  a  word  she  says.  She  spoke 
English  when  I  first  met  her ;  but  I  don't  believe  she  knows 
much  of  it,"  said  Dora  thoughtfully. 

"  There  is  something  sewed  up  in  a  little  bag,  and  hung 
round  her  neck,"  added  she,  ujust  such  as  some  of  our 
foreign  volunteers  had,  —  a  sort  of  charm,  you  know,  to 
keep  them  from  being  struck  by  the  evil  eye.  That  shows 
that  her  friends  must  have  been  foreigners." 

"  Yes ;  and  Catholics  too,  likely  enough,"  said  Kitty 
rather  contemptuously  ;  adding,  after  a  pause,  — 

"  Well,  you  go  down,  and  I'll  sit  by  her  a  while.  If  she 
sleeps  as  sound  as  this,  I  don't  suppose  I  need  stay  a  great 
while.  There's  the  supper-dishes  to  do." 

"  I'll  wash  them,  of  course ;  but,  if  you  want  to  come 


1G6  A   CHAMBER    OF    MEMORIES. 

down,  you  might  leave  the  door  open  at  the  head  of  the  oack 
stairs,  and  I  should  hear  if  she  called  or  cried.  And,  now  I 
think  of  it,  I  have  a  letter  to  show  Karl  and  you.  I  got  it 
at  the  post-office  ?  " 

"  From  Mr.  Brown?  "  asked  Kitty  quickly. 

"  No,  from  a  Mr.  Burroughs  ;  a  man  I  never  heard  of  in 
my  life  till  to-day.  But  come  down  in  a  few  minutes,  and 
I  will  read  it  to  you." 

"  Well,  don't  read  it  till  I  come." 

"  No  :  I  won't."  And  Dora  quietly  went  out  of  the  room, 
leaving  Kitty  to  swing  backward  and  forward  in  the  white- 
cushioned  rocking-chair,  her  dark  eyes  wandering  half  con 
temptuously,  half  enviously,  over  Dora's  collection  of  treas 
ures,  with  an  occasional  glance  at  the  sleeping  child. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

A   LETTER   AND   AN   OFFER. 

TN  the  kitchen,  Dora  found  Karl  waiting  for  her;  and, 
while  she  eat  her  supper  with  the  healthy  relish  of  a  young 
and  vigorous  creature,  she  gave  her  cousin  an  account  of  all 
the  circumstances  attending  her  meeting  with  the  little  girl, 
whom  she  described  again  as  a  foreigner,  and  probably 
French. 

"And  what's  to  be  done  with  her,  Dora?"  asked  the 
young  man  rather  gravely,  when  she  had  finished. 

"  Why,  when  she  is  well  enough  to  tell  who  she  is,  and 
where  she  came  from,  —  that  is,  if  she  can  talk  English  at  all, 
—  we  can  return  her  to  her  friends  ;  or,  if  they  are  not  to  be 
discovered,  I  will  keep  her  myself.  That  is,"  —  and  the 
youug  girl  paused  suddenly,  the  blood  rushing  to  her  face,  as 
she  added,  —  "  that  is,  if  you  and  Kitty  are  willing.  It  is 
your  house,  not  mine ;  though  I'm  afraid  I  am  apt  to 
forget." 

Karl  looked  at  her  reproachfully. 


168  A  LETTER  AND  AN  OFFER. 

"  When  I  brought  you  here,  Dora  Darling,  I  brought  you 
home  ;  and  when  my  mother  died,  not  yet  a  year  ago,  d\C 
she  not  bid  us  live  together  as  brother  and  sisters,  in  lov* 
and  harmony  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but "  — 

"But  what,  Dora?" 

"  I  am  afraid  sometimes  I  behave  too  much  as  if  it  were 
my  own  house,"  faltered  Dora. 

"  And  so  it  is  your  own  house,  just  as  it  is  my  own  and 
Kitty's  own.  Have  either  of  us  ever  made  you  feel  that 
there  was  any  difference,  or  that  you  had  less  right  here 
than  we  ?  " 

Dora  made  no  reply  ;  and,  while  Karl  still  waited  for  one, 
the  staircase-door  opened  softly,  and  Kitty  appeared. 

"  The  child  is  fast  asleep,"  said  she  :  "  so  I  thought  I 
would  come  down  and  hear  the  letter." 

"  What  letter?"  asked  Karl  a  little  impatiently. 

"  Oh  !  I  haven't  told  you.     Here  it  is." 

And  Dora  drew  from  her  pocket,  and  held  toward  him,  a 
large  white  envelope,  boldly  directed  to 

a  Miss  DORA  DARLING,  care  of  Capt.  Charles  Windsor." 
"  That's   nonsense.     I   have   beaten    my   sword    into    a 


A    LETTER    AND    AN    OFFER.  1 G9 

ploughshare  now,  and  am  only  plain  mister,"  said  Capt. 
Karl,  glancing  at  the  direction. 

"  Well,  read  the  letter,  do ;  Fin  dying  to  hear  it,"  said 
Kitty  impatiently ;  and  her  brother,  with  an  affectation  of 
extreme  haste,  unfolded  the  thick,  large  sheet  of  note-paper, 
and  read  aloud  :  — 

"  Having  been  requested  to  communicate  with  Miss 
Darling  .upon  a  matter  of  importance,  Mr.  Thomas  Bur 
roughs  will  do  himself  the  honor  of  calling  upon  her, 
probably  in  the  afternoon  of  Thursday,  Aug.  25, 

"  CINCINNATI,  Aug.  20." 

"  Thursday,  25th  !  Why,  that  is  to-morrow  !  "  exclaimed 
Karl,  as  he  finished  reading. 

"  Dated  Cincinnati,  you  see  !  It  is  some  message  from 
Mr.  Brown.  He  lives  about  twenty  miles  from  Cincinnati," 
said  Kitty  eagerly. 

"  I  don't  think  so.  Why  should  Mr.  Brown  send  a  mes 
sage  when  he  writes  to  me  so  often  ? "  replied  Dora  with 
simplicity. 

"  I  should  think  he  did.  I  suppose  you  expected  a  letter 
this  afternoon,  and  that  was  what  made  you  so. bent  upon 
driving  to  town  in  all  the  heat." 

"  It  wasn't  very  hot,  and  you  know  we  needed  these  things 
from  the  shop." 


170  A  LETTER  AND  AN  OFFER. 

"From  the  grocery-store,  do  you  mean?"  asked  Kitty 
sharply. 

"  Yes." 

"  Why  can't  you  talk  as  we  do,  then?  You  have  been 
here  long  enough  now,  I  should  think." 

"Because  she  knows  how  to  talk  better,  Miss  Kit,"  said 
Karl  good-htimoredly.  "  Calling  a  shop  a  store  is  an 
Americanism,  like  calling  a  station-house  a  depot,  or 
trousers  pants." 

"Well,  I  thought  we  were  Americans,  Dora  and  all," 
retorted  Kitty. 

"  Mercy,  child  !  don't  let  us  plunge  from  philology  into 
ethnology.  I  prefer  to  speculate  upon  Mr.  Thomas  Bur 
roughs,  Who  is  he  ?  and  what  does  he  want  of  our  Dora  ?  " 

"  To  marry  her,  I  suppose,  or  to  ask  her  to  marry  Mi. 
Brown,"  snapped  Kitty. 

"  Perhaps  he  wants  to  ask  my  good  word  toward  marry 
ing  you,"  suggested  Dora,  coloring  deeply. 

"  No  such  good  luck  as  that,  eh,  Kitty? "  said  Karl  with 
a  laugh. 

"  Good  luck  !  I'm  sure  I'm  in  no  hurry  to  be  married  ; 
and,  though  I  haven't  had  Dora's  chances  of  seeing  all  sorts 
of  men,  I  dare  say  I  shall  get  as  good  a  husband  in  the 
end,"  replied  Kitty  loftily. 


A    LETTER    AND    AN    OFFER.  171 

u  But,  contemplating  for  one  mtimeot  the  idea  that  it  may 
not  be  an  offer  of  marriage  that  Mr.  Thomas  Burroughs 
means  by  a  l  matter  of  importance,'  let  us  consider  what  else 
it  can  be/'  said  Karl  with  a  quizzical  smile. 

"  Perhaps  he  wants  your  ideas  upon  the  campaign  in 
Western  Virginia,  and  a  report  of  the  general's  real 
motives  and  intentions,"  suggested  Dora  gayly. 

"  Perhaps  he  wants  to  engage  his  winter's  butter  ;  though 
I  don't  believe  Dora  is  the  one  to  ask  about  that,"  sai.d 
Kitty. 

"  Now,  Kitty  !  I'm  sure  I  made  up  the  last,  and  you  said 
it  was  as  nice  as  you  could  do  yourself." 

"  Yes ;  but  you  turned  all  the  buttermilk  into  the  pig's 
pail  instead  of  saving  it  for  biscuits." 

"  So  I  did.  Well,  as  dear  old  Picter  used  to  say,  « What's 
the  use  ob  libin'  if  you've  got  trew  larnin'? ' J 

"  O  Dora  !  how  can  you,  how  can  you  !  —  you  cruel,  cruel 
girl,  how  can  you  speak  of  him ! "  cried  Kitty  in  a  passion 
of  anger  and  grief ;  and,  pushing  back  her  chair  so  violently 
as  to  upset  it,  she  rushed  out  of  the  room. 

u  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  !  "  exclaimed  Dora  in  great  distress  ; 
and  would  have  followed  her,  had  not  Karl  held  her  back. 

"  Don't  go,  dear ;   it  will  be  of  no  use :  she  will  not  let 


172  A  LETTER  AND  AN  OFFEK. 

you  into  her  room.  Poor  Kitty  !  she  loved  her  mother  so 
passionately,  and  her  nature  is  so  intense  !  We  must  make 
many  excuses,  Dora,  for  our  sister's  little  inequalities  of  tem 
per  :  I  think  her  great  loss  is  at  the  bottom  of  all." 

Dora  looked  thoughtful,  and  presently  said  slowly,  "  I 
know  it,  Karl ;  but  it  does  seem  to  me  rather  unjust  that  she 
should  hate  poor  Pic's  memory  so  bitterly  even  now.  He 
did  not  know  any  more  than  I  that  he  had  small-pox  when 
he  came  back  that  time  from  New  York  ;  and  when  Kitty 
told  him  that  Aunt  Lucy  had  taken  it  from  him,  and  was 
very  sick,  he  felt  so  badly,  that  I  think  it  prevented  his  get 
ting  well." 

"  O  Dora,  don't  say  that !  Kitty  could  not  have  blamed 
him  openly." 

"  I  don't  know  what  she  said  ;  but,  from  that  day,  he  grew 
worse,  and  died  without  being  able  to  bid  me  good-by, 
—  Pic,  who  brought  me  away  from  those  cruel  people,  and 
cared  for  me  as  if  I  had  been  his  child.  O  dear,  dear  old 
Pic ! " 

She  did  not  cry ;  she  very  seldom  did :  but  she  clasped 
her  hands  tightly  together,  and  looked  so  white  and  wild, 
that  Karl  came  to  her,  and,  taking  her  in  his  arms,  would 
have  soothed  and  caressed  her  like  a  little  child,  had  not  she 
repulsed  him. 


A  LETTER  AND  AN  OFFER.  173 

"  Please  not,  dear  Karl !  I  must  bear  my  griefs  alone  ; 
for  I  am  alone  in  all  the  world." 

It  was  the  bitterest  sentence  Dora  had  ever  spoken,  and 
her  cousin  looked  at  her  in  dismay. 

"  If  Picter  could  have  given  the  disease  to  me  instead  of 
to  aunt,  and  he  and  I  could  have  journeyed  on  together 
into  another  world  as  we  had  through  this,  and  left  your 
mother  to  Kitty  and  you ! "  continued  Dora ;  while  in  her 
eyes,  and  about  her  white  lips,  quivered  a  passion  of  grief 
far  beyond  any  tears,  —  far  beyond,  thank  God  !  any  grief 
that  eyes  and  lips  so  young  are  often  called  to  express. 
And  as  it  rose  and  swelled  in  her  girl  heart,  and  shook  her 
strong  young  soul,  Dora  uttered  in  one  word  all  the  bit 
terness  of  her  orphaned  life. 

"  Mother  !  "  cried  she,  and  clinched  her  hands  above  the 
sharp  pain  that  seemed  to  suffocate  her,  —  the  pain  we  call 
heart-ache,  and  might  sometimes  more  justly  call  heart 
break. 

Karl  looked  at  her,  and  his  gay  young  face  grew  strong, 
and  full  of  meaning.  He  folded  her  again  in  his  arms,  and 
said,  — 

"  Dora,  I  had  not  meant  to  speak  yet ;  but  I  cannot  see 
you  so,  or  hear  you  say  such  words.  Do  not  you  know, 


174  A    LETTER    AND    AN    OFFER. 

cousin,  that  there  is  nothing  in  all  the  world  I  love  like  you  ; 
and  that,  while  I  live,  you  can  never  be  alone  ;  and,  while  I 
have  a  home,  you  can  never  want  one,  or  be  other  than  its 
head  and  centre  ?  Dora,  marry  me,  and  I  will  make  you 
forget  all  other  loves  in  the  excess  of  mine."  Dora  allowed 
her  head  to  droop  upon  his  shoulder,  and  a  sudden  sense  of 
peace  and  rest  fell  temptingly  upon  her  spirit. 

"  Dora,  Dora  Darling  always,  even  when  you  are  all  my 
Dora ! "  whispered  Karl ;  but  Dora  released  herself  from 
his  arms,  and  stood  upright.  Her  face  was  strong  again 
now,  although  very  white  ;  and  she  said, — 

"  Thank  you,  cousin.  You  are  good  and  kind,  as  you 
always  have  been,  and  I  am  glad  you  love  me  as  I  love 
you  ;  but  what  else  you  have  said  we  will  forget.  I  am  too 
young  to  think  of  such  things,  and  you  will  not  feel  so 
to-morrow  or  next  day.  Be  my  brother,  as  you  have  been  ; 
and  let  me  be  sister  to  you  and  Kitty,  as  aunt  told  us.  Only 
I  wish  I  could  make  Kitty  love  me." 

The  young  man  would  have  persisted  ;  but  Dora,  gravely 
shaking  her  head,  said,  — 

"  Karl  dear,  you  only  distress  me,  and  I  want  to  be  quiet. 
Do  not  speak  of  this  again  for  at  least  another  year,  and 
then,  perhaps,  you  will  not  want  to." 


A  LETTER  AND  AN  OFFER.  175 

"  But  in  a  year  I  may,  if  I  do  want  to  ?  "  asked  Karl 
eagerly. 

"  I  don't  want  to  say  that ;  for  I  don't  know  that  I 
should  want  you  to  then,"  said  Dora,  with  such  exquisite 
simplicity,  that  the  young  man  laughed  outright,  and  said,  — - 

"  But  you  don't  know  that  you  sha'n't,  do  you,  darling 
Dorelle?" 

"  I  didn't  say  so." 

"  No  ;  but —  Well,  I  won't  insist ;  only  I  shall  put  down 
the  date.  Let  me  see  :  Aug.  24,  isn't  it  ?  " 

He  took  out  his  note-book,  wrote  a  few  words,  and,  glan 
cing  at  Dora  with  a  suppressed  smile,  put  it  away  again. 
Then,  more  seriously,  he  took  her  hand,  saying, — 

"  Only  remember  one  thing,  Dora  ;  and  that  is,  whatever 
may  come  in  the  future,  this  house  is  your  home  as  long 
as  it  is  ours ;  and,  while  I  live,  there  is  always  some  one 
who  loves  you  best  of  all  God's  creatures." 


CHAPTER    XXI. 
GIOVANNI'S    BOOM. 

"  OCHONE  !  an'  it's  weary  work  climbin'  thim  stairs," 
groaned  Mrs.  Ginniss,  pausing  upon  the  landing  outside  the 
organ-grinder's  door. 

"An'  mabbe  she's  wid  him  still.  Anyway,  I'll  see,  an7 
save  the  coomin'  down  agin." 

With  these  words,  Mrs.  Ginniss  gave  a  modest  rap  upon 
the  door,  and,  as  it  remained  unanswered,  a  somewhat 
louder  one,  calling  at  the  same  time,  — 

"  Misther  Jovarny  !  Misther  Jovarny,  I  say !  Is  it  out 
yees  still  are  ?  " 

The  question  remaining  unanswered,  the  good  woman 
waited  no  longer,  but,  climbing  the  remaining  flight  of  stairs, 
took  the  key  of  her  room  from  the  shelf  in  Teddy's  closet 
where  it  had  been  left,  and  unlocked  the  door. 

"  Cherry,  darlint,  be  ye  widin?"  asked  she,  throwing  it 
open  ;  and  then,  recollecting  herself,  added,  — 

"  An'  sure  how  could  she  be,  widout  she  kim  in  trew 
176 


GIOVANNI'S  ROOM.  177 

the  kayhole  ?    But,  blissid  Vargin  !  where  would  they  be  all 
the  day  long?" 

So  saying,  Mrs.  Ginniss  threw  up  the  window,  and  looked 
anxiously  down  the  street  in  the  direction  where  Giovanni 
and  Cherry  had  that  morning  disappeared. 

Nothing  was  to  be  seen  of  them ;  but,  just  turning  the 
corner,  came  Teddy,  his  straw-hat  pushed  back  upon  his 
forehead,  and  his  steps  slow  and  undecided.  He  was 
thinking  wearily,  as  he  often  thought  of  late,  that  the  time 
had  come  when  he  could  no  longer  withhold  his  little  sister 
from  the  friends  to  whom  she  really  belonged ;  and  it  was 
not  alone  the  heat  of  the  August  night  that  brought  the 
great  drops  of  perspiration  to  the  boy's  forehead,  or  drew 
the  white  line  around  his  mouth. 

"  It's  quicker  nor  that  you'll  etip,  my  b'y,  whin  you  hear 
the  little  sisther's  not  in  yit,  an'  it's  wid  Jovarny  she  is," 
muttered  Mrs.  Ginniss  ;  and,  half  dreading  the  entrance  of 
her  son,  she  applied  herself  so  diligently  to  making  a  fire  in 
preparation  for  supper,  that  she  did  not  appear  to  notice 
him. 

"  Good  -  evening,  mother.  Where's  Cherry?"  asked 
Teddy,  throwing  himself  wearily  into  a  chair  just  inside  the 
door. 

12 


178  GIOVANNI'S  ROOM. 

"  An'  is  it  yersilf,  gossoon?  An*  it's  the  big  hate  is  in  it 
intirely." 

"  Yes  :  it's  hot  enough.     Where's  Cherry  ?  " 

"  Takin'  a  little  walk,  honey.  You  wouldn't  be  shuttin* 
the  poor  child  into  the  house  this  wedder,  sure  ?  " 

"  Taking  a  walk  !  —  what,  alone  !  "  exclaimed  Teddy,  sit 
ting  upright  very  suddenly. 

"  Of  coorse  not.  Misther  Jovaruy  was  perlite  enough  to 
ax  her  ;  an'  she  wor  that  wild  to  go,  I  couldn't  say  her  no." 

"  I  wish  you  had  said  no,  mother.  I  hate  to  let  her  be 
with  that  fellow,  anyway.  I'd  have  taken  her  to  walk  my 
self,  if  I  was  twice  as  tired.  How  long  have  they  been 
gone  ?  " 

And  Teddy,  in  liis  turn,  looked  anxiously  out  at  the  win 
dow,  but  saw  nothing  more  than  the  squalid  street  Aveltering 
in  the  last  rays  of  the  August  sun  ;  a  knot  of  children  fight 
ing  in  the  gutter  over  the  body  of  a  dead  cat ;  an  old-clothes 
man  sauntering  wearily  along  the  pavement,  and  a  dog,  Avith 
lolling  tongue  and  blood-shot  eyes,  following  close  at  his 
heels. 

"  How  long  have  they  been  out?  "  asked  Teddy  again,  as 
he  drew  in  his  head,  and  looked  full  at  his  mother,  whose 
confusion  struck  him  with  a  sudden  dismay. 


GIOVANNI'S  ROOM.  179 

"  O  mother  !  "  cried  he,  "  what  is  it?  There's  more  than 
you're  telling  me  amiss.  How  long  is  she  gone  ?  " 

u  Sure  an*  I  didn't  mind  the  clock  whin  they  wint,"  said 
Mrs.  Ginniss,  still  struggling  to  avoid  the  shock  she  felt 
approaching. 

u  No,  no  ;  but  you  can  tell !  O  mother  !  do  speak  out, 
for  the  love  of  God  !  I  can  see  how  scared  you  are,  though 
you  won't  say  it.  Tell  me  right  out  all  there  is  to  tell.'* 

"  An'  it's  no  great  there  is  to  till,  Teddy  darlint ;  on'y 
this  mornin',  whin  I  was  sint  for  to  Ann  Dolan  (an'  she 
that  bad  it's  dead  we  thought  she  wor  one  spell,  but  for 
Docther  Wintworth),  Jovarny  kim  up,  an'  axed  might  the 
child  go  for  a  walk  to  the  Gardens  wid  him  ;  an'  I  jist  put- 
tin'  on  me  shawl  to  go  out,  an'  not  wantin'  to  take  the  little 
crather  in  wid  a  sick  woman,  nor  yet  to  lock  the  door  oa 
her,  an'  lave  her  to  fret.  So  I  says  she  might  go  wid  him  ; 
and,  whin  she  coom  home,  I  tould  Jovarny  to  open  the  door 
wid  the  kay  an'  let  her  in,  an'  showed  her  the  dinner  on  the 
shelf  by :  an'  if  it's  harm  that's  coom  to  her,  it's  harder  on 
me  than  on  yersilf  it'll  fall ;  an'  my  heart  is  bruck,  is  bruck 
intirely." 

Throwing  her  apron  over  her  head,  Mrs.  Ginniss  fell  into 
a  chair,  and  gave  way  to  the  agitation  and  alarm  she  had  so 


180  GIOVANNTS   ROOM. 

long  suppressed  ;  but  Teddy,  ordinarily  so  kind,  and  tender 
of  his  mother,  only  stared  at  her  blankly,  and  repeated,  — 

"  This  morning  !     How  early  this  morning?  " 

u  I  wor  jist  afther  washin'  the  bit  breakfast-dishes," 
sobbed  Mrs.  Ginniss. 

"  Twelve  hours  or  near!"  exclaimed  Teddy  in  dismay. 
"And  is  it  to  the  Gardens  he  said  he'd  take  her?" 

"  Shure  an'  did  he  ! " 

"  To  the  Public  Gardens,  the  City  Gardens,  just  by  the 
Commons  ?  "  persisted  Teddy. 

"  Jist  the  Gardens  wor  all  he  said ;  an*  towld  me  the 
shwans  that  wor  in  it,  an'  the  bit  posies." 

"  Yes  :  there's  swans  there,  and  posies  enough,"  muttered 
Teddy,  and,  snatching  the  hat  he  had  thrown  upon  a  chair 
as  he  entered,  rushed  out  of  the  room  and  down  the  stairs  at 
headlong  speed. 

But,  before  he  could  possibly  have  reached  the  Garden,  the 
sun  had  set,  all  visitors  were  excluded,  and  the  gate-keeper 
had  gone  home.  Nothing  daunted,  Teddy  scaled  the  high 
iron  fence  ;  ran  rapidly  through  all  the  paths,  arbors,  nooks, 
and  corners  of  the  place  ;  and  finally  returned  over  the  fence, 
just  in  time  to  be  collared  by  a  policeman,  who  had  been 
watching  him:  but  so  sincere  was  the  boy's  tone  and 


GIOVANNI'S  ROOM.  181 

manner,  as  he  assured  the  official  that  he  was  after  no  harm, 
but  was  looking  for  his  little  sister,  who  had  been  taken 
away  from  home,  and,  as  he  feared,  lost,  that  the  guardian 
of  the  public  peace  not  only  released  him,  but  inquired  with 
some  interest  into  the  particulars  of  the  case ;  saying  that 
he  had  been  upon  his  beat  nearly  all  day,  and  should  have 
been  likely  to  notice  any  one  remaining  in  the  Garden  longer 
than  usual. 

Teddy,  with  anxious  minuteness,  described  the  appear 
ance  both  of  the  lost  child  and  the  "  organ-fellow,"  as  he 
called  Giovanni ;  and  gave  the  particulars  of  their  leaving 
home  as  his  mother  had  given  them  to  him.  The  policeman 
listened  attentively,  but  shook  his  head  at  the  end. 

"  Haven't  seen  any  sich,"  said  he.  "  Them  I-talian 
fellers  is  a  bad  lot ;  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he'd  took  off 
the  child  to  learn  her  to  play  a  tambourine,  and  go  round 
picking  up  coppers  for  him.  You'd  better  wait  till  morning  ; 
and,  if  they  don't  turn  up,  her  mother  can  go  and  tell  the 
chief  about  it." 

"  Chief  of  police  ?  "  asked  Teddy. 

"  Yes  ;  but  it  ain't  always  he  can  do  any  thing.  There 
was  that  little  gal,  a  year  ago  pretty  nigh,  belonged  to  a  man 
by  the  name  of  Legrauge.  She  was  lost,  and  they  offered  a 


182  GIOVANNI'S  ROOM. 

reward  of  ten  thousand  dollars  finally  ;  but  she  warn't  nevei 
heard  from.  You  see,  there's  sich  a  many  children  till 
about:  and  come  to  change  their  clothes,  and  crop  their 
hair,  it's  hard  to  tell  t'other  from  which,"  said  the  police 
man  meditatively  ;  and  then,  suddenly  resuming  his  official 
dignity,  added,  "  You  mustn't  never  get  over  that  fence  again, 
though  :  mind  that,  young  man." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Teddy,  turning  away  to  hide  the 
guilty  confusion  of  his  face  ;  and,  as  he  hurried  home,  he 
anxiously  revolved  the  idea  of  applying  to  the  police  for  aid, 
should  Cherry  remain  absent  after  the  next  morning.  But 
Teddy  knew  something  of  the  law,  and  had  too  often  seen 
better  hidden  secrets  than  his  own  ferreted  out  and  brought 

to  the  light  by  its  searching  finger,  to  wish  to  trust  himself 

« 

within  its  grasp  ;  at  any  rate,  just  yet. 

"  If  I  find  her,  I'll  give  her  up,  and  tell  all,  and  never 
touch  the  reward ;  but  how  can  I  go  and  say  she's  lost 
again?"  thought  Teddy,  with  a  sick  heart.  And  when,  run 
ning  up  the  stairs,  his  quick  eyes  caught  sight  of  his  mother's 
face,  his  own  turned  so  ghastly  white,  that  she  ran  toward 
him,  crying,  — 

"  An'  is  it  dead  you've  found  her,  Teddy?" 

"  Worse  ;  for  she's  lost ;  and  all  that  comes  to  her  is  on 


GIOVANNI'S  ROOM.  183 

my  shoulders/'  said  Teddy  hoarsely,  as  he  stood  just  within 
the  door,  looking  hungrily  about  the  room,  as  if  he  hoped, 
in  some  forgotten  corner,  to  light  upon  his  lost  treasure. 

"Did  Jovarny  take  his  organ  and  the  monkey?"  asked 
he  suddenly. 

"  Sure,  and  he  didn't ;  for  I  mind  luckin*  afther  him 
going  down  the  street." 

"  Then  he'll  be  back  ! "  exclaimed  the  boy  eagerly  ;  but 
the  next  moment  the  new  hope  died  out  of  his  face,  and  he 
muttered,  — 

"  He  might  have  taken  them  before.  Anyway,  I'll  soon 
see  ; "  and,  running  down  the  stairs,  Teddy  applied  his 
sturdy  shoulder  and  knee  to  the  rickety  door  of  the  Italian's 
room.  Neither  door  nor  lock  was  fitted  to  withstand  much 
force  ;  and,  with  a  sharp  sound  of  rending  wood  and  breaking 
iron,  they  flew  apart ;  and  Teddy,  stepping  over  the  thresh 
old,  glanced  eagerly  around.  The  room  was  stripped  of 
every  thing  except  the  poor  furniture,  which  Teddy  knew 
the  Italian  had  hired  with  it,  and  the  wooden  box  where  he 
had  kept  his  clothes.  Of  this  the  key  remained  in  the  lock  ; 
and  the  boy,  lifting  the  lid,  soon  discovered  that  a  few  worth 
less  rags  were  all  that  remained. 

"  He's  gone,  and  she  with  him  !  "  groaned  Teddy,  drop- 


184  GIOVANNI'S  ROOM. 

ping  the  box-cover,  and  standing  upright  to  look  again 
through  the  deserted  room.  His  mother  stood  in  the  door 
way. 

"  Och,  Teddy  !  an' it's  desaved  us  intirely  he  has,  —  the 
black-hearted  crather  ;  an'  may  the  cuss  o'  Crom'ell  stick  to 
him  day  an'  night,  an'  turn  his  sleep  to  wakin',  an'  his  mate 
to  pizen,  till  all  I  wish  him  is  wished  out !  " 

"  It's  no  good  cursing  or  wishing,  mother,"  said  Teddy 
bitterly.  "  If  there  was,  I'd  curse  myself  the  first ;  for  it's 
on  me  it  had  ought  to  fall." 

"  Sorra  a  bit  of  that,  thin,  Teddy  mavourneen  ;  for  iver 
an'  always  it  was  yersilf  that  wor  tinder  an'  careful  uv  h«r 
that's  gone  ;  an'  yersilf  it  wor  that  saved  the  life  of  her  the 
night  she  first  come  home  to  us ;  an'  it's  none  but  good  that 
iver  yees  did  her  in  all  the  days  of  yer  life  ;  an',  if  there's 
any  blame  to  be  had  betwixt  us,  it's  on  yer  poor  owld 
mother  it  should  be  laid,  —  her  that  loved  the  purty  darlint 
as  if  she'd  been  her  own,  an',  if  she's  lost,  will  carry  a 
brucken  heart  to  her  grave  wid  mournin'  afther  her.  O 
wurra,  wurra,  acushla  machree !  Och  the  heavy  day  an' 
the  black  night  that's  in  it !  Holy  Jasus,  have  mercy  on  us  ! 
Spake  the  good  word  for  us.  blissid  Vargin  !  Saint  Bridget 


185 

(that's  me  own  namesake),  stip  up  an'  intersade  for  us  now, 
if  iver ;  for  black  is  the  nade  we  have  uv  help." 

Falling  upon  her  knees,  and  pulling  a  rosary  of  wooden 
beads  from  her  bosom,  the  Irish  woman  pursued  her  peti 
tions,  mingling  them  with  tears  and  exclamations  more  or 
less  pathetic  and  grotesque  ;  while  Teddy,  seated  upon  the 
Italian's  empty  box,  his  head  between  his  hands,  his  elbows 
upon  his  knees,  his  eyes  fixed  steadily  upon  the  floor,  gave 
up  his  young  heart  a  prey  to  such  remorse  as  might  fitly  pun 
ish  even  a  heavier  crime  than  that  of  which  his  conscience 
accused  him. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

THE    CONFESSION. 

THE  morning  came,  but  brought  no  comfort.  Mrs.  Gin- 
niss  had  crept  up  stairs,  and,  throwing  herself  upon  the  bed, 
had  fallen  asleep  with  the  tears  still  trickling  down  her  hon 
est  face ;  but  to  Teddy's  haggard  eyes  no  sleep  had  come, 
and  he  had  only  changed  his  position  by  stretching  himself 
upon  the  floor  beside  the  box,  his  head  upon  his  arm,  his 
aching  eyeballs  still  shaping  in  the  darkness  the  form  and 
features  of  the  little  sister  whom  he  had  sullenly  resolved 
was  lost  to  him  forever  as  a  punishment  for  his  fault  in  con 
cealing  her. 

"  If  I'd  brought  her  back,"  thought  he  again  and  again, 
"  they'd  have  let  me  get  seeing  her  once  in  a  while ;  they 
couldn't  have  refused  me  so  much  ;  and  maybe  some  day  I'd 
have  been  a  gentleman,  and  could  have  talked  with  her  free 
and  equal.  But  now  she's  lost  to  them  and  to  me  ;  and,  when 
I  tell  the  master,  he'll  call  me  a  mean  thief  and  a  liar,  and 

186 


THE    CONFESSION.  187 

a  rascal  every  way,  arid  he'll  never  look  at  me  again ;  and 
mother  "  — 

Then  he  would  wander  away  into  dreary  speculation  upon 
what  his  mother  would  say  when  the  truth  was  made  known 
to  her,  and  she  found  the  boy  on  whom  she  had  lavished 
her  love  and  pride  dishonored  and  discarded  by  the  mas 
ter  to  whom  he  owed  so  much,  and  whose  patronage  she 
had  taken  such  pains  to  secure  for  him  ;  and  then,  like  the 
weary  burden  of  a  never-ending  song,  would  come  again 
the  thought,  — 

"  But  if  I'd  brought  her  back  at  the  first !  " 

The  bitter  growth  of  the  night,  however,  had  borne  fruit 
in  a  resolution  firm  as  it  was  painful ;  and,  when  Teddy  came 
up  stairs  to  make  himself  fit  to  go  to  the  office,  he  was  able 
to  say  some  words  of  comfort  to  his  mother,  assuring  her 
that  no  blame  to  her  could  come  of  what  had  happened,  and 
that  it  was  possible  the  child  might  yet  be  found,  as  he 
should  warn  those  of  her  loss  who  could  use  surer  means  to 
search  for  her  than  any  at  their  command. 

"  An'  is  it  the  perlice  ye're  manin'  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Giu- 
niss.  "Sure  it's  little  they'd  heed  the  loss  o'  poor  folks 
like  us,  or  look  for  one  little  child  that's  missin',  whin  there's 
more  nor  enough  uv  'em  to  the  fore  in  ivery  poor  man's 


1  THE    CONFESSION. 

house.  But  niver  a  one  like  ours,  Teddy  b'y, —  niver 
another  purty  darlint  like  her  that's  gone." 

Teddy  made  DO  reply  to  this,  but,  hastily  swallowing  some 
food,  took  his  hat,  and  left  the  room. 

Upon  the  stairs  he  met  the  landlord,  who,  followed  by  a 
furniture-broker,  entered  the  room  of  the  organ-grinder. 
Going  in  after  them,  Teddy  learned,  in  answer  to  his  eager 
questions,  that  the  broker  had,  early  in  the  morning  of  the 
previous  day,  received  a  visit  from  the  Italian,  who,  announ 
cing  that  he  had  no  further  use  for  the  furniture,  paid  what 
was  owing  for  the  rent  of  it,  and  made  a  bargain  for  a  box  he 
was  about  to  leave  behind  him ;  but,  as  to  his  subsequent 
movements,  the  man  had  no  information  to  give,  nor  could 
even  judge  whether  he  intended  leaving  the  city,  or  only  the 
house. 

Thanking  him  for  the  information,  Teddy  went  drearily  on 
his  way,  more  hopelessly  convinced  than  ever  that  Giovanni 
had  deliberately  stolen  the  child,  and  absconded  with  her. 

"  Well,"  muttered  he,  "  all  I've  got  to  do  now  is  to  toll  the 
master,  and  take  what  I'll  get.  If  he  finds  the  little  —  no  : 
she's  none  of  that,  nor  ever  was  —  if  he  finds  her,  and  takes 
her  home  to  them  that  lost  her,  I'll  be  content,  if  it's  to 
prison,  or  to  sweeping  the  streets,  or  to  be  a  slave  in  the 
South,  he  .sends  mo." 


THE    CONFESSION.  189 

Arrived  at  the  office,  Teddy  faithfully  performed  his  morn 
ing  duties,  and  then  seated  himself  to  wait  for  Mr.  Barlow, 
who  was  again  occupying  Mr.  Burroughs's  office  during  that 
gentleman's  absence  in  the  West.  While  arranging  upon  his 
table  some  papers  he  was  to  copy,  Teddy  suddenly  remem 
bered  that  other  morning,  now  nearly  a  year  ago,  when  Mr. 
Burroughs  had  laid  upon  this  very  table  the  picture  and  ad 
vertisement  of  the  lost  child ;  and  all  the  months  of  guilty 
hesitation  and  concealment  that  since  had  passed  seemed  to 
roll  back  upon  the  boy's  heart,  crushing  it  into  the  very  dust. 
He  threw  down  the  pen  he  had  just  taken  up,  and  laid  his 
head  upon  his  folded  arms,  groaning  aloud,  — 

"  Oh  !  if  I  had  told  him  then  !  if  I  had  just  told  him  that 
morning ! " 

The  door  of  the  office  opened  quickly ;  and  Mr.  Barlow,  a 
grave  and  reserved  young  man,  who  had  never  taken  much 
notice  of  Teddy,  entered,  and,  as  he  passed  to  the  inner  re  orn, 
glanced  with  some  curiosity  at  the  boy,  whose  emotion  waa 
not  to  be  quite  concealed. 

"  If  you  please,  sir  "  — 

"Well,  Teddy?" 

"  I  should  like  to  send  a  letter  to  Mr.  Burroughs." 

"  Do  you  mean  a  letter  from  yourself?  " 


190  THE   CONIESSION. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

A  slight  smile  crossed  Mr.  Barlow's  face,  as  be  replied  a 
little  sneeriugly,  — 

"  I  am  afraid  your  business  will  have  to  wait  till  Mr. 
Burroughs's  return,  my  boy." 

"  Don't  you  be  sending  him  letters,  sir?  " 

"  I  have ;  but,  when  I  heard  from  him  yesterday,  he 
was  about  leaving  Cincinnati,  and  gave  me  no  further 
address.  He  will  be  at  home  in  a  day  or  two." 

Mr.  Barlow  passed  on,  and  Teddy  stooped  over  his  work, 
but  to  so  little  purpose,  that,  on  submitting  it  for  inspection, 
he  received  a  sharp  reproof  for  his  negligence,  and  an  order 
to  do  the  whole  afresh. 

"  What  a  Quixotism  of  Burroughs's  to  try  to  educate  this 
stupid  fellow  !  "  muttered  Mr.  Barlow  to  a  friend  who  lounged 
beside  his  table  ;  and  Teddy,  hearing  the  criticism  upon  his 
patron,  felt  an  added  weight  fall  upon  his  own  conscience. 

"  They  laugh  at  him  because  I'm  stupid,  and  I'm  stupid 
because  I'm  thinking  of  what  I've  done.  It's  good  that 
they'll  soon  be  shut  of  me  altogether.  Maybe  I  can  sweep 
the  crossings,  or  clean  the  gutters,"  thought  poor  miserable 
Teddy,  bending  afresh  to  his  task. 

Mr.  Burroughs  did  not  come  so  soon  as  expected  ;  and  Mr. 


THE    CONFESSION.  T.91 

Barlow  became  quite  impatient  of  the  constant  inquiries 
addressed  to  him  by  Teddy  as  to  the  probable  movements  of 
his  master.  At  last,  about  noon  of  Friday,  he  walked 
into  the  office,  looking  more  cheerful  and  like  his  old  self 
than  he  had  been  since  the  heavy  sorrow  had  fallen  upon  the 
household  so  near  to  his  heart. 

Mr.  Barlow  greeted  him  heartily,  and,  calling  him  into  the 
inner  office,  closed  the  door  ;  while  Teddy  remained  without, 
his  heart  beating  with  a  sick  hard  throb,  a  tingling  paid 
creeping  from  his  brain  to  the  ends  of  his  icy  fingers,  and  his 
whole  frame  trembling  with  agitation. 

It  was  no  light  task  that  he  had  set  himself;  and  so 
he  well  knew.  To  stand  before  the  man  he  loved  and  rever 
enced  before  all  men,  and  say  to  him  that  he  had  been  for 
months  deliberately  deceiving  and  injuring  him  and  his  ;  to 
confess  that  he  had  not  once,  but  persistently,  refused  the 
only  chance  ever  offered  him  of  repaying,  in  some  measure, 
the  kindness  and  generosity  of  his  patron  ;  to  acknowledge 
himself  selfish,  deceitful,  mean,  and,  more  than  these,  un 
grateful,  —  oh !  it  was  no  light  task  that  the  boy  had  set 
himself ;  and  yet  his  resolution  never  faltered. 

Great  acts  are  only  great  in  the  light  of  the  actor's  pre 
vious  history  and  training ;  and  perhaps  the  atonement 


192  THE    CONFESSION. 

Teddy  now  contemplated  was  for  him  as  heroic  as  that  of 
the  martyred  bishop  who  held  the  hand  that  had  signed  the 
recantation  steadily  in  the  flame  until  it  was  consumed. 

The  door  of  the  office  opened,  and  the  two  gentlemen 
were  passing  out  together,  when  Teddy  started  up,  — 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  might  I  speak  with  you  by  your 
self  ?  " 

u  Oh,  yes  !  Teddy  has  been  very  anxious  for  an  interview 
with  you  all  the  week.  I  will  go  on,  and  expect  you  down 
there  presently,"  said  Mr.  Barlow. 

"  Yes,  in  two  minutes.  Come  in  here,  Teddy,  and  let  us 
hear  what  you  have  to  say." 

Mr.  Burroughs  threw  himself  into  the  chair  he  had  just 
quitted,  and  stirred  the  fire,  saying  good-humoredly,  — 

"  Out  with  it,  my  boy !     What's  amiss  ?  " 

Teddy,  standing  beside  the  table,  one  clammy  hand  grasp 
ing  the  edge  of  it,  seemed  to  feel  the  floor  heave  beneath  his 
feet,  and  the  whole  room  to  reel  and  swim  before  his  eyes. 
His  tongue  seemed  paralyzed,  his  lips  quivered,  his  voice  came 
to  his  own  ears  strange  and  hollow ;  but  still  he  struggled 
on,  resolute  to  reach  the  worst. 

"  It's  about  the  little  girl  that  was  lost,  sir,  —  your  little 
cousin  Antoinette." 


THE    CONFESSION.  193 

"  'Toinette  Legrange  !  "  cried  Mr.  Burroughs,  his  face 
suddenly  growing  earnest  as  he  turned  it  upon  the  boy,  and 
asked, — 

u  What  is  it?    Have  you  heard  of  her?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  found  her  in  the  street  the  night  she  was 
lost.  She  was  dressed  in  poor  clothes,  and  her  hair  was 
cut  off.  I  didn't  know  who  she  was  ;  and  I  took  her  home 
to  my  mother,  and  asked  her  to  keep  her  for  my  little 
sister,  because  I  never  got  one,  and  always  wanted  her. 
Then  she  was  sick  ;  and  one  day  you  told  me  she  was 
lost,  and  showed  me  the  picture  and  the  piece  in  the  paper ; 
and  I  knew  it  was  her.  Then  I  thought  she  was  going 
to  die,  and  I  waited  to  know ;  and,  when  she  got  better,  I 
waited  a  while  longer ;  and  at  last  she  was  well,  and  I 
couldn't  bear  to  part  with  her  "  — 

"  But  she  is  safe  now?"  interrupted  Mr.  Burroughs, 
his  look  of  stern  reproach  mingling  with  a  sudden  hope. 

"  No,  sir  :  she's  lost !  " 

"  What ! " 

Teddy's  white  lips  tried  again  and  again  before  they 
could  form  the  words,  — 

"  She's  lost  again,  sir  !  She  went  out  walking  with  Jo- 
13 


194  THE    CONFESSION. 

varny,  that's  an  organ-grinder,  last  Monday  morning ;  and 
he  has  taken  her  off." 

"  You  miserable  fellow !  You  had  better  have  killed 
as  well  as  stolen  her ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Burroughs. 

Teddy  clung  to  the  table,  and  reeled  as  if  a  physical  blow 
had  fallen  upon  him.  It  was  the  first  time  in  the  four 
years  they  had  spent  together  that  his  master  had  spoke  A 
to  him  in  anger,  and  now,  — 

"  Five  days  ago !  And  what  have  you  done  in  that 
time  towards  looking  for  her?"  asked  Mr.  Burroughs 
sternly. 

u  Nothing,  sir.  I  wanted  to  write  to  you,  but  couldn't 
get  any  direction." 

u  And  why  didn't  you  tell  Mr.  Barlow,  and  let  him  set 
the  police  at  work?  If  you  had  warned  him  as  soon  as 
you  discovered  the  loss,  this  organ-grinder  might  have  been 
caught.  Now  he  is  perhaps  in  New  Orleans,  perhaps  half 
way  to  Europe.  Why  didn't  you  tell  Barlow,  I  say  ?  " 

"  Please,  sir,  I  couldn't  bear  telling  any  one  but  you  that 
I  done  it,"  said  Teddy  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Well,  sir,  and,  now  you  have  told  me,  you  will  please 
walk  out  of  this  office,  and  never  enter  it  again.  I  did  not 
imagine,  that,  in  all  these  mouths,  you  were  preparing  such 


THE    CONFESSION.  195 

a  pleasant  surprise  for  me.  One  question,  however:  did 
your  mother  know  who  the  child  was?" 

u  No,  sir  :  never." 

"  Then  you  may  thank  her  that  I  let  you  off  so  easily ; 
but  I  never  desire  to  see  either  of  you  again  after  to-day. 
Wait  here  for  one  hour,  while  I  go  with  a  detective  to  hear 
your  mother's  story  and  to  get  a  description  of  this  organ- 
grinder.  At  two  o'clock,  leave  the  office  ;  and  take  with 
you  whatever  belongs  to  yourself,  and  nothing  more." 

Mechanically  "obeying  his  master's  gesture,  Teddy  stag 
gered  out  of  the  room.  Mr.  Burroughs  followed  him,  and, 
locking  the  door  of  the  inner  office,  put  the  key  in  his 
pocket,  and  went  out. 

"He  thinks  I'm  a  thief!"  was  the  bitter  thought  that 
darted  through  Teddy's  mind ;  and  then,  "  And  how 
could  I  steal  more  than  when  I  stole  her  ?  He's  right  to 
lock  up  from  me." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

TEDDY   LOSES    AND    FINDS    HIS    HOME. 

AN  hour  later,  Teddy,  leaving  behind  him  the  books, 
papers,  pictures,  every  thing  that  Mr.  Burroughs  had  given 
him,  and  taking  only  the  few  articles  of  his  clothing  which 
happened  to  be  at  the  office,  crept  out  of  the  door  and 
down  the  stairs  with  the  look  of  a  veritable  thief. 

Choosing  the  least-frequented  streets,  and  avoiding  the 
recognition  of  such  of  his  acquaintance  as  chanced  to  meet 
him,  he  slunk  homeward,  feeling  a  little  less  wretched,  but 
infinitely  more  degraded,  than  he  had  done  before  iiis  con 
fession. 

Mr.  Burroughs  knew,  his  mother  knew,  the  police-offi 
cials  knew,  —  how  could  he  tell  who  did  not  know  ?  —  of  his 
shame  and  guilt.  Every  pair  of  eyes  seemed  to  accuse 
him  ;  every  step  seemed  to  pursue  him  ;  every  distant  voice 
seemed  to  summon  him  to  receive  the  punishment  of  his 
misdoing ;  and  it  was  as  to  a  refuge  that  he  at  last  hurried 
in  at  the  door  and  up  the  stairs  of  the  tenement-house. 

196 


TEDDY    LOSES    AND    FINDS    HIS    HOME.  19V 

At  the  upper  landing,  however,  he  paused.     His  mother ! 

—  oh  the  sorrow  and  the  shame  that  he  had  brought  upon 
her  in  payment  for  all  her  love  and  effort,  and  the  constant 
sacrifices  she  had  made,  ever  since  he  could  remember,  to 
enable  him  to  rise  above  his  natural  station,  and  to  appear 
as  well  as  his  future  associates  !    It  came  back  to  him  now, 

—  not  a  new  thought,  but  one  intensified  by  the  more  im 
mediate  suffering  of  the  last  two  hours.     He  leaned  for  a 
moment  against  the  wall,   and  wiped  his   clammy  brow, 
feeling   that   any   sudden  death,  any  strange    chance    that 
could  befall  him,  would  be  welcome,  so  that  it  swallowed 
up  the  coming  moment,  and  spared  him  the  sight  of  the 
misery  he  had  wrought. 

Only  a  moment.  Then  the  desperate  courage  that  had 
carried  him  through  his  confession  to  his  master  gave  him 
strength  to  open  the  door  and  enter. 

The  ironing-table  was^  spread,  and  upon  a  half-finished 
shirt  lay  a  little  pile  of  money.  Teddy  knew  that  it  was 
the  wages  owing  him  since  the  last  payment,  and  turned 
away  his  eyes  with  loathing. 

Mrs.  Ginniss  was  lying  upon  the  bed,  her  face  buried  in 
the  pillow,  sobbing  heavily  and  wearily,  as  if  exhausted  by 
excessive  emotion. 


198  TEDDY   LOSES    AND    FINDS    HIS    HOME. 

Teddy  closed  the  door  softly,  and  stood  looking  at  her, 
uncertain  whether  she  had  heard  him  enter.  In  the  room 
below,  the  little  child  of  the  new  tenants  sung,  at  her  play, 
an  air  that  Cherry  had  often  sung. 

Teddy  listened,  and,  when  the  little  song  was  done,  cried 
out,  — 

u  O  mother!  haven't  you  a  word  for  me?  I  believe  I'll 
go  mad  next." 

"  Don't  be  spakin'  to  me,  you  bowld,  bad  b'y  !  It's  niver 
a  word  I  have  for  yees,  or  wants  from  yees  !  "  sobbed  Mrs. 
Ginuiss. 

Teddy  looked  at  her  drearily  for  a  moment ;  then  softly 
seated  himself,  his  hands  folded  listlessly  in  his  lap,  his  eyes 
wandering  idly  about  the  familiar  room,  and  his  mind  jour 
neying  on  and  on  in  the  weary,  mechanical  manner  of  a 
mind  over-wrought  and  stunned  by  long-continued  or  exces 
sive  suffering. 

From  the  street  below  rose  the  hum  and  bustle  of  city 
life  ;  from  the  room  that  had  been  Giovanni's,  the  voice  of 
the  child,  still  singing  at  her  play.  In  at  the  open  window 
streamed  the  thick  yellow  sunshine  of  the  August  afternoon, 
and  a  great  droning  blue  fly  buzzed  upon  the  pane. 

Teddy  noted  every  sound ;  watched  the  motes  (lancing  iu 


TEDDY   LOSES    AND    FINDS    HIS    HOME.  199 

the  sunshine,  the  fly  bouncing  up  and  down  the  little  window, 
the  movements  of  the  cat,  who,  rising  from  her  nap,  stretched 
every  limb  separately,  yawned,  lazily  lapped  at  her  saucer 
of  milk,  and  then,  seating  herself  in  the  patch  of  lurid  sun 
shine,  with  her  tail  curled  round  her  fore-paws,  blinked 
drowsily  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  dozed  off  again. 

But,  whether  he  listened  or  whether  he  looked,  it  was  but 
ear  and  eye  that  noted  these  familiar  and  homely  sounds  or 
sights.  The  mind  still  journeyed  on  and  on  in  that  weary 
journey  without  beginning  or  end ;  that  dull,  heavy  tramp 
through  black  night,  with  no  hope  of  ever  reaching  morning  ; 
that  vain  flight  from  a  pain  not  for  one  moment  to  be  forgot 
ten  or  left  behind  ;  that  numb  consciousness  of  an  evil,  that, 
wait  as  we  will,  must  sooner  or  later  be  met  and  recog 
nized. 

A  long  hour  passed,  and  Mrs.  Ginniss  suddenly  arose 
and  confronted  her  son. 

"  If  iver  I  larnt  ye  any  thin',  ye  black-hearted  b'y, 
what  wor  it?" 

Teddy  raised  his  heavy  eyes  to  his  mother's  face,  bat 
made  no  answer. 

u  Worn't  it  to  sarch  iver  an'  always  for  the  chance  to  do 
a  good  turn  to  him  as  has*  done  all  for  yees  that  yer  own 


200  TEDDY   LOSES    AND    FINDS    HIS    HOME. 

father  could,  an'  more?    Worn't  that  the  lesson  I've  struv  '  » 
larn  ye  this  four  year  back,  Teddy  Ginniss  ?  " 

u  Yes,  mother,"  said  the  boy  in  a  low  voice. 

"  An'  haven't  I  towld  ye,  that,  so  as  ye  did  it,  my  blessin' 
was  wid  yees,  an'  so  as  ye  turned  yer  back  on  it  my  cuss 
Jud  folly  yees,  an'  the  cuss  uv  God  an'  all  his  saints  and 
angels  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"  An'  it's  yersilf  that's  tuck  heed  uv  me  words,  an*  done 
yer  best  to  kape  'em ;  isn't  it,  me  fine  lad  ? "  pursued  the 
mother  with  bitter  irony. 

"  I  did  always,  mother,  till  "  —  began  Teddy  humbly  ;  but 
his  mother  angrily  interrupted  him. 

u  Alluz  till  ye  got  the  chance  to  do  contrairy,  an'  plaze 
yersilf  at  his  expense.  Sure,  an*  it  wor  mighty  perlite  uv 
yees  to  wait  that  long,  an'  it's  greatly  obleeged  to  yees  he 
shud  be." 

She  waited  a  moment,  standing  before  the  boy,  who,  still 
seated  droopingly  in  the  chair  where  he  had  first  fallen,  his 
heavy  eyes  looking  straight  before  him,  offered  neither  reply 
nor  remonstrance  ;  while  his  mother,  setting  her  hands  upon 
her  hips,  looked  scornfully  at  him  a  moment  longer,  and 
then  exclaimed,  — 


TEDDY   LOSES    AND    FINDS    HIS    HOME.  201 

"  An'  have  ye  niver  a  word  to  say  for  yersilf,  ye  white- 
livered  coward?  Is  there  niver  anudder  lie  on  yer  tongue 
like  thim  ye  found  so  handy  this  twelvemonth  back  ?  Git  out 
uv  me  sight,  ye  spalpeen,  and  out  uv  me  doors  !  Go  find 
them  as  '11  kape  yees  to  stale  rich  folks'  children,  an'  thin  lie 
to  the  mother  as  bore  yees,  and  the  kindmasther  as  tried  to 
make  a  gintleman  out  uv  a  thafe.  Begone,  I  say,  Teddy 
Giuniss,  and  quit  pizenin'  the  air  of  an  honest  woman's 
room  wid  yer  prisince  !  " 

Teddy  rose,  and  was  leaving  the  room  without  a  word, 
but  at  the  door  turned  back  ;  looked  long  and  wistfully  at  his 
mother,  who  had  turned  away,  and  affected  not  to  see  him ; 
then  slowly  said,  — 

k'  Good-by,  mother  !  It's  worse  nor  you  can  I'm  feeling. 
Good-by  !  If  ever  I  come  to  any  good,  I'll  let  you  know  ; 
and,  if  I  don't,  you're  shut  of  me  for  always." 

The  mother  made  no  answer  ;  and  Teddy,  lingering  oue 
moment  on  the  threshold  to  turn  his  sad  eyes  for  the  last 
time  upon  the  familiar  objects  that  had  surrounded  him 
since  childhood,  went  out,  and  down  the  stairs. 

In  the  street  he  paused  a  moment,  looking  up  and  down, 
wondering  where  he  should  first  go,  and  how  food  and  she; 
ter  for  the  coming  night  were  to  be  obtained.    The  question 


202  TEDDY    LOSES    AND    FINDS    HIS    HOME. 

yet  unsolved,  he  was  walking  slowly  on ;  when  a  voice  far 
overhead  called,  — 

"  Teddy  !  —  Teddy  Giimiss  !     Come  here,  I  say  !  " 

It  was  his  mother's  voice  ;  and,  as  he  looked  up,  it  was 
his  mother's  face  and  hand  summoning  him. 

In  the  same  forlorn,  stunned  way  that  he  had  come  down, 
Teddy  climbed  the  stairs  again,  feeling  as  if  his  feet  were 
shod  with  lead,  or  the  terrible  weight  at  his  heart  was  too 
heavy  to  be  carried  a  step  farther. 

He  pushed  open  the  door  of  his  mother's  room,  but  never 
looked  up  or  spoke,  although  he  knew  she  stood  close  behind 
it.  But,  indeed,  there  could  have  been  no  time,  had  the 
boy  wished  to  speak ;  for  already  his  mother's  arms  were 
around  his  neck,  and  her  head  upon  his  stout  shoulder,  while 
the  passionate  tears  fell  like  rain  upon  his  hands. 

u  Ochone,  ochoue !  An'  it's  me  own  an'  only  b'y  yees 
are,  an'  must  be,  Teddy  darlint ;  an'  it's  mesilf  that  'ud  be 
worse  nor  a  haythiu  to  turn  yees  inter  the  strate,  so  long  as 
it's  a  roof  an'  a  bit  I  have  left  for  yees.  An'  sure,  if  ye've 
gone  asthray,  it's  the  heart  uv  yees  that's  bruck  wid  frettiu' 
afther  it ;  an'  there's  a  many  as  has  done  wuss,  and  niver  a 
hape  it  harmed  'em  here  nor  hereafter.  An',  if  Michael 
wor  here  the  day,  it's  himself  'ud  say  to  pass  it  by ;  an'  it 


TEDDY    LOSES    AND    FINDS    HIS    HOME.  203 

wor  little  I  should  be  plazin'  his  blissid  sowl  to  turn  yees 
oif  for  one  fault.  Kiss  yer  owld  mother,  honey,  ail'  be  her 
own  b'y  agiu  !  " 

"  Thank  you,  mother,"  said  Teddy,  still  IL  the  strange, 
low  voice  he  had  used  before ;  and,  putting  his  arms  round 
her  neck,  he  met  and  returned  her  hearty  kiss,  and  then, 
without  another  word,  went  and  shut  himself  into  the  little 
loft  he  called  his  own,  and  was  seen  no  more  that  night. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

MR.    BURROUGHS'S   BUSINESS. 

IT  was  the  afternoon  of  Thursday,  Aug.  25 :  and 
Dora,  sitting  beside  the  bed  where  her  little  charge  lay 
sleeping  heavily,  heard  the  rattle  of  wheels,  and,  peeping 
from  the  window,  saw  Karl  jumping  from  the  wagon,  fol 
lowed  more  slowly  by  a  tall,  handsome  young  gentleman, 
whom  she  concluded  to  be  Mr.  Burroughs  ;  her  cousin  hav 
ing  gone  to  meet  him  at  the  railway-station,  seven  miles 
away. 

u  He's  good-looking  enough  for  a  colonel,"  thought  Dora, 
and  then  started  back,  coloring  a  little  ;  for  Mr.  Burroughs, 
in  entering  the  house,  had  glanced  up,  and  caught  her  eye. 
The  next  minute,  Kitty  darted  into  the  room  from  her  own 
chamber. 

"They've  come!  Did  you  see  him?  Isn't  he  a  real 
beauty  ?  I  do  love  a  tall  man  !  —  he's  as  tall  as  Mr.  Brown, 
and  his  whiskers  are  ever  so  much  prettier ;  but,  then,  Mr. 

204 


MR.    BURROUGHS'S    BUSINESS.  205 

Brown's  a  minister.  My  !  how  nice  you  look,  Dora  !  Go 
right  down,  and  I'll  stay  with  little  Molly." 

Dora  glanced  involuntarily  at  the  mirror,  and  caught  the 
reflection  of  a  bright  face,  surrounded  by  heavy  chestnut 
curls,  and  lighted  with  clear  hazel  eyes,  and  flashing  white 
teeth,  a  head  of  queenly  shape  and  poise,  and  a  firm,  grace 
ful  figure,  well  set  off  by  its  white  dress,  black  bodice, 
and  scarlet  ribbons,  —  a  charming  picture,  with  the  quaintly 
decorated  chamber  for  background,  and  the  heavy  black 
frame  of  the  old  mirror  for  setting :  and  a  brighter  color 
flashed  into  the  young  girl's  cheek  as  she  recognized  the 
fact ;  but  she  only  said,  — 

"  Why  do  you  call  her  Molly,  Kitty?" 

"  Oh  !  just  a  fancy  name.  We  must  call  her  something, 
and  can't  find  out  her  right  name." 

"  She  called  it  Sunshine,"  said  Dora,  bending  to  kiss  the 
pale  little  face  upon  the  pillow  as  she  passed. 

u  Moonshine,  more  like,"  replied  Kitty.  "  She  didn't 
mean  it  for  a  name,  of  course.  You  didn't  understand. 
But,  come  :  your  beau  is  waiting." 

"  Don't,  Kitty,  please  !  " 

"  I  might  as  well  begin.  Every  man  is  a  beau  that 
comes  near  you.  I  never  saw  such  luck  !  " 


~    _    -    r_-    •     -: 


• 


: 


- .  :  :  . : . 


MR.    BURROUGHS'S    BUSINESS.  207 

"Were  you  in  the  army?"  asked  Dora  with  sudden 
animation. 

"  Yes  :  I  was  lieutenant  in  the  Massachusetts  Sixth,  and 
went  through  Baltimore  with  them,"  said  Burroughs, 
straightening  himself  a  little  as  the  associations  of  military 
drill  came  back  upon  him. 

"  Oh  !  were  you  there?  Wasn't  it  glorious  to  be  the  very 
first?"  exclaimed  Dora;  and,  with  no  further  preamble, 
the  two  plunged  into  a  series  of  army  reminiscences  and 
army  gossip,  that  kept  them  busy  until  Karl  entered  the 
room,  saying,  — 

"  Well,  Dora,  what  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Burroughs's 
news?" 

"  She  has  not  heard  it  yet,"  said  Mr.  Burroughs,  laugh 
ing  a  little.  "  We  have  been  so  busy  talking  over  our  army 
experiences,  that  we  have  not  come  to  business." 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  not ;  for  I  want  to  see  how  Dora 
will  take  it :  but  you  will  be  grieved,  as  well  as  pleased, 
little  girl." 

"  Yes,"  pursued  Mr.  Burroughs.  "  I  am  sorry  to  inform 
you,  Miss  Dora,  that  your  friend  Col.  Blank  is  dead." 

"  Oh,  Col.  Blank  dead  !"  exclaimed  Dora,  while  a  sudden 
shadow  fell  upon  her  bright  face. 


208  MR.    BURROUGHS'S    BUSINESS. 

"  I  am  very,  very  sorry,"  continued  she.  "  Mr.  Brown 
went  to  see  him  two  months  ago,  and  he  was  quite  well 
then." 

"  Yes :  this  was  rather  a  sudden  illness ;  a  fever,  I  be 
lieve.  They  tell  me,  that,  since  his  wife  died,  he  has  never 
been  very  well,  and  at  last  was  only  ill  three  weeks." 

"  I  am  so  sorry  !  "  said  Dora  again.  "  He  was  very  kind 
to  me  always." 

"  And  no  doubt  died  with  feelings  of  affection  and  con 
fidence  for  you,  Miss  Dora ;  since  he  has  made  you  his 
heir." 

"  Me !  "  exclaimed  the  young  girl  in  a  tone  more  of 
fright  than  of  pleasure. 

"  Yes  ;  and,  although  the  property  is  not  of  any  great 
available  value  at  present,  I  think,  if  properly  managed,  it 
may,  in  the  future,  become  something  very  handsome," 
said  the  lawyer. 

"  But  I  am  so  sorry  Col.  Blank  is  dead  !  Why,  on  Cheat 
Mountain,  he  seemed  so  strong  and  well !  He  was  never 
tired  on  the  marches,  and  hardly  ever  rode,  but  walked  at 
the  head  of  the  column  so  straight  and  soldierly ! " 

The  two  men  glanced  at  each  other,  then  at  her,  and 
gravely  smiled.  The  regret  was  so  unaffected,  so  unselfish, 


MR.    BURROUGHS'S    BUSINESS.  209 

and  so  unworldly,  that  each,  after  his  owii  fashion,  admired 
and  marvelled  at  it.  Mr.  Burroughs  was  the  first  to  speak  ; 
and,  drawing  a  packet  of  papers  from  his  pocket,  he  spread 
before  Dora's  sorrowful  eyes  a  copy  of  Col.  Blank's  will, 
a  plan  of  the  estate  bequeathed  by  it  to  her,  and  an  official 
letter  from  Mr.  Ferrars,  the  principal  executor.  This  Mr. 
Ferrars,  the  lawyer  informed  his  young  client,  was  a  per 
sonal  friend  of  his  own,  and  had  placed  the  matter  in  his 
hands,  thinking  that  the  news  might  be  more  satisfactorily 
arranged  by  an  interview  than  by  correspondence. 

"  And,  as  I  was  coming  East  at  the  time,  I  could  very  con 
veniently  call  to  see  you  on  my  way  home,"  concluded  Mr. 
Burroughs. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Dora  meekly ;  and  then,  rather 
sadly,  but  very  patiently,  listened  while  the  lawyer  described 
the  property  she  had  inherited,  and  indicated  the  best  course 
to  pursue  with  regard  to  it. 

"  You  will  perceive,  Miss  Dora,  that  the  bulk  of  the 
estate  consists  of  this  large  tract  of  territory  in  Iowa,  con 
taining  a  great  deal  of  valuable  timber,  a  hundred  or  so 
common-sized  farms  of  superb  soil,  and  prairie-land  enough 
to  graze  all  the  herds  of  the  West. 

Col.  Blank  had  just  invested  all  his  property,  except  the 

14 


210  MR.    BURROUGHS'S    BUSINESS. 

estate  in  Cincinnati,  in  the  purchase  of  this  tract,  and  was 
about  to  remove  thither,  when  Mrs.  Blank  died ;  and,  as  I 
said,  he  never  seemed  quite  himself  after  that  event,  and 
took  no  further  steps  toward  emigration.  The  house  in 
Cincinnati  might  sell,  Mr.  Ferrars  thought,  for  three  or 
four  thousand  dollars  ;  enough,  you  see,  to  make  a  begin 
ning  at  '  Outpost,'  as  the  colonel  called  it." 

"Did  he  name  the  Iowa  farm  Outpost?"  asked  Dora 
rather  eagerly. 

"  Yes :  you  see  the  name  is  written  on  this  map  of  the 
estate." 

"  Then  we  will  call  it* so  ;  won't  we,  Karl?" 

"  But  you  don't  advise  my  cousin  to  emigrate  to  the  back 
woods,  do  you,  Mr.  Burroughs  ?  "  asked  Karl  disapprov 
ingly. 

"  It  is  the  only  method  of  reaping  any  immediate  benefit 
from  her  inheritance,"  said  the  lawyer.  "  The  territory  is 
valuable,  very ;  but  would  not  sell  to-day  for  any  thing  like 
the  price  paid  by  Col.  Blank,  who  fancied  its  situation,  and 
intended  to  live  there.  The  only  way  to  get  back  the 
money  is  to  hold  the  land  until  better  times,  or  until  emi 
gration  reaches  the  Des  Moines  more  freely  than  it  has  yet 
done." 


MR   BURROUGHS'S    BUSINESS.  211 

"  I  shall  certainly  go  there  and  live,"  said  Dora  with 
t  positiveness. 

u  You  have  decided?"  asked  Mr.  Burroughs,  looking  into 
her  face,  and  smiling. 

u  Quite,"  said  Dora. 

Karl  looked  too,  saw  the  firm  line  of  the  young  girl's 
rosy  lips,  and  slightly  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"  It  is  settled,"  said  he  with  comic  resignation. 

Dora  returned  his  gaze  wistfully.  She  could  not,  in  pres 
ence  of  a  stranger,  say  what  was  in  her  heart :  but  she 
longed  to  let  him  know  that  this  prospect  of  independence, 
of  making  a  home  of  her  own,  of  assuming  duties  and  pur 
suits  of  her  own,  was  such  a  prospect  as  no  friend  could 
wish  her  to  forego  ;  was  the  full  and  only  cure  for  the  bitter 
ness  of  heart  she  had  been  unable  to  conceal  from  him  upon 
the  previous  evening,  —  a  bitterness  so  foreign  to  the  sweet 
and  noble  nature  of  the  young  girl,  that  it  had  affected  her 
cousin's  mind  with  a  sort  of  terror. 

Something  of  all  she  meant  must  have  stood  visibly  in 
the  clear  eyes  Dora  now  fixed  upon  Karl ;  for,  in  meeting 
that  gaze,  the  young  man  changed  color,  and  said  hastily,  — - 

"  But  if  you  will  be  happier,  Dora;  if  you  are  not  con 
tented  here  —  It  is  a  humdrum  sort  of  life,  I  know." 


?12  MR.    BURROUGHS'S    BUSINESS. 

''  Oh,  no  !  not  that ;  but  I  want  to  be  doing  something.  I 
mean  something  almost  more  than  I  can  do,  not  ever  so 
much  less.  I  like  to  feel  as  if  I  must  use  every  bit  of 
strength  and  courage  I  have,  and  then  I  always  find  more 
than  I  thought  I  had." 

Mr.  Burroughs  looked  sharply  at  the  young  girl  who 
made  this  ungirlish  avowal.  Was  this  utter  simplicity?  or 
was  it  an  ingenious  affectation  ?  Was  Dora  Darling  one  of 
the  noblest,  or  one  of  the  most  crafty,  of  womankind? 

Tom  Burroughs  was  a  man  of  the  world  and  of  society, 
and  flattered  himself  that  neither  man  nor  woman  had  art 
deeper  than  his  penetration ;  but  as  he  rapidly  scanned  the 
broad  brow,  clear,  level-glancing  eyes,  firm,  sweet  mouth, 
queenly  head,  and  mien  of  innocent  self-confidence,  he  asked 
himself  again,  — 

"Is  it  the  perfection  of  art,  or  can  it  be  the  perfection  of 
nature?" 

But  Karl  was  saying  rather  gloomily,  — 
"  And  what  is  to  become  of  us,  Dora?" 
"  Kitty  and  you?"  asked  Dora,  open-eyed.     "  Why,  of 
course,  you  are  to  come  too  !     Did  you  suppose  I  wanted  to 
leave  you?     Of  course,  it  is  your  home  and  mine,  just  as 
this  house  lias  been  :  we  are  all  one  family,  you  know." 


MR.    BURROUGHSS    BUSINESS.  ^ 

"  To  be  sure.  Well,  I  fancy  there  will  be  something  foi 
me  to  do  on  your  Outpost  farm.  You  must  make  me 
overseer." 

"  No  :  you  shall  be  confidential  adviser  ;  but  I  am  going 
lo  oversee  every  thing  myself,  and  you  must  go  on  with  your 
medical  studies." 

"You  are  going  to  become  practical  farmer,  then?" 
asked  Mr.  Burroughs,  raising  his  eyebrows  never  so 
slightly. 

"  Yes,  sir  :  not  to  really  work  with  my  own  hands  out  of 
doors,  you  know,  but  to  see  to  every  thing.  At  first,  I 
sha'n  t  understand  much  about  it,  I  suppose  ;  but  I  shall  learn, 
and  I  shall  be  so  happy  !  " 

"  And  how  soon  will  you  be  ready  to  go?"  asked  Mr. 
Burroughs. 

Dora  considered  for  a  moment. 

"  To-day  is  Thursday.  I  think  we  might  start  Monday 
morning  ;  couldn't  we,  Karl  ?  " 

"  And  meantime  sell  this  place  and  furniture  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Windsor,  smiling. 

"  Not  sell,  but  let  the  place.  There  is  Jacob  Minot 
would  be  glad  to  hire  it,  and  a  good  tenant  too.  As  for 
the  furniture,  we  had  better  carry  it  with  us.  Shall  we 


214  MTC.    BUR.IOUGHS'S    BUSINESS. 

have  to  build  a  house  when  we  get  there,  Mr.  Bur 
roughs  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Col.  Blank  had  selected  a  site,  and  made 
some  little  beginning :  I  believe  nothing  more  than  having 
the  land  cleared  and  a  cellar  dug,  however.  You  will  begin 
with  a  log-cabin  ;  shall  you  not  ?  " 

"  Yes  :  I  suppose  so.  WelT,  Karl,  mightn't  we  start  on 
Monday?" 

"  Not  in  heavy  marching  order,  I  am  afraid  ;  but  very 
soon,  if  you  are  quite  determined." 

"  Yes,  quite;  but  what  will  Kitty  think?"  asked  Dora 
suddenly. 

"  Oh  !  I  think  she  will  like  it.  Here  she  comes,  and  we 
can  ask  her." 

The  crisp  rustle  of  muslin  skirts  swept  down  the  stairs ; 
and  Mr.  Burroughs,  turning  his  head,  saw  standing  in  the 
doorway  a  tall,  handsome  brunette,  with  masses  of  black  hair 
rolled  away  from  a  low  forehead,  glancing  black  eyes,  and 
ripe  lips,  showing  just  now  the  sparkle  of  white  teeth  be 
tween,  as  the  young  lady  half  waited  for  an  introduction 
before  entering. 

"  Mr.  Burroughs,  Kitty  ;  my  sister,  sir,"  said  Karl,  rising, 
and  handing  a  chair  to  Kitty,  who,  with  rather  too  wide  a 


MB.    BURROUGIIS'S    BUSINESS.  215 

sweep  of  her  bright  muslin  skirts,  seated  herself,  and  said, 
half  laughing,  — 

"  I  suppose  you  are  through  with  your  secrets  by  this 
time?" 

"  We  were  just  wanting  to  tell  you  the  new  plan,  and  see 
how  you  will  like  it,"  said  Dora  quickly ;  for  she  felt  an 
involuntary  dread  lest  Kitty  should,  in  presence  of  this 
courteous  stranger,  say  something  to  do  herself  discredit. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

MAN   VERSUS   DOG. 

MR.  BURROUGHS  staid  to  tea,  and,  while  it  was  being  pre 
pared,  strolled  with  Karl  about  the  little  farm  ;  looked  at  the 
Alderney  cow,  the  Suffolk  pigs,  the  span  of  Morgan  horses 
named  Pope  and  Pagan  ;  quietly  sounded  the  depths  of  Capt. 
Karl's  open  and  joyous  nature,  and  made  him  talk  of  his 
cousin  Dora,  and  reveal  his  love  and  his  hopes  regarding 
her. 

"  They  will  marry  out  there,  and  she  will  manage  him, 
and  make  him  very  happy,"  thought  Mr.  Burroughs,  return 
ing  toward  the  farmhouse,  and  admiring  the  long  slope  of 
the  mossy  roof,  and  the  clinging  masses  of  woodbine  creep 
ing  to  the  ridge-pole. 

"  You  won't  make  so  picturesque  a  thing  of  your  new 
home  for  several  years  to  come,  if  ever,  Mr.  Windsor," 
added  he  aloud. 

"  No,  1  suppose  not ;  but  the  genius  of  our  people  is  more 
216 


MAN   VERSUS    DOG.  217 

for  beginning  than  ending,  and  this  old  place  was  built  by 
my  grandfather,"  said  the  young  man. 

"  An  excellent  and  most  American  reason  for  deserting 
it,"  said  Mr.  Burroughs  gravely  ;  "  and,  if  you  are  thinking 
of  selling,  I  should  like  the  opportunity  of  becoming  pur 
chaser.  This  sort  of  thing  is  going  out  of  the  market,  and 
I  should  like  to  secure  a  specimen  before  it  is  too  late.  It  is 
all  the  same  as  a  picture,  except  that  it  is  stationary,  and 
one  must  come  to  it  instead  of  carrying  it  away  in  triumph." 

"  I  think  we  may  like  to  sell ;  but  I  must  consult  my  sister 
and  cousin  first,"  said  Karl  rather  gravely  :  for,  after  all,  he 
did  not  just  like  the  tone  assumed  by  this  fine  city  gentle 
man  in  speaking  of  the  place  that  had  been  a  home  to  Karl 
and  his  ancestors  for  more  than  a  century.  The  quick  tact 
of  the  lawyer  perceived  the  slight  wound  he  had  given,  and 
repaired  it  by  carelessly  saying,  — 

"  And,  besides  the  beauty  of  the  place,  I  should  be  proud 
of  possessing  any  thing  that  had  belonged  to  a  grandfather. 
My  family  has  been  so  migratory,  that  I  can  hardly  say 
whether  I  had  a  grandfather  or  not :  certainly  I  have  not 
the  remotest  idea  where  he  lived." 

Capt.  Karl  laughed. 

"  Our  family  has  been  settled  here  since  the  days  of  the 


218  MAN   VERSUS   DOG. 

Pilgrims,"  said  he  ;  "  and  Kitty  could  show  you  a  family 
chart  as  large  as  a  table-cloth,  of  which  she  is  mightily 
proud,  although  I  never  could  see  any  particular  benefit  it 
has  been  to  us." 

"  And  Miss  Dora  —  is  she  fond  of  recalling  her  ancestors 
and  their  fame?  or  is  she  satisfied  with  her  own?"  asked 
Mr.  Burroughs. 

"  I  don't  believe  it  ever  occurred  to  her  that  either  she  or 
they  deserved  any,"  said  Karl,  iaughing.  "  You  never  knew 
a  creature  so  entirely  simple  and  self-forgetful  in  your  life, 
and  yet  of  so  wide  and  noble  a  nature.  She  is  never  so 
happy  as  in  doing  good  to  other  people."* 

"  But  likes  to  do  it  in  her  own  way?"  suggested  the  law 
yer  pleasantly. 

"  Likes  to  do  it  in  the  best  way,  and  her  own  way  is  sure 
to  be  that,"  replied  Karl  somewhat  decidedly;  and  Mr. 
Burroughs  smiled  and  bowed. 

In  the  doorway,  under  the  swinging  branch  of  the  tall 
sweetbrier,  suddenly  appeared  Kitty,  her  brown  face  becom 
ingly  flushed,  and  the  buttons  of  her  under-sleeves  not  yet 
adjusted. 

"  Tea  is  ready ;  will  you  please  to  walk  in,  Mr.  Bur 
roughs  ?  "  said  she :  and  the  guest  followed,*  well  pleased,  to 


MAN    VERSUS    DOG.  219 

the  wide,  cool  kitchen,  with  its  white,  scoured  floor,  its  vine- 
shaded  windows  and  open  door  giving  a  view  of  broad 
meadow-lands,  with  a  brook  curling  crisply  through  them, 
and  a  dark  pine-wood  beyond.  In  the  centre  stood  the  neat 
tea-table,  with  its  country  dainties  of  rich  cream,  yellow 
butter,  custards,  ripe  peaches  sliced  and  served  with  sugar, 
buttermilk-biscuit,  and  the  fresh  sponge-cake,  on  which  Kitty 
justly  prided  herself. 

"  You  see  we  are  plain  country-folks,  and  eat  in  the 
kitchen,  Mr.  Burroughs,"  said  she,  with  a  little  laugh,  as 
they  seated  themselves. 

"Is  this  room  called  a  kitchen?  You  amuse  yourself 
by  jesting  with  my  ignorance,"  said  Mr.  Burroughs,  looking 
about  him  with  affected  simplicity.  "  If  ever  I  should  live 
here,  I  would  call  this  the  refreshing-room  ;  for  I  can  imagine 
nothing  more  soothing  to  eyes  weary  of  a  summer  sun  than 
these  vine-covered  windows,  and  the  cool  greens  of  that 
meadow  and  the  pine-forest  beyond." 

Kitty  smiled  a  little  vaguely,  half  inclined  to  insist  upon  the 
kitchen-side  of  the  question ;  when  Karl  asked,  in  a  disap 
pointed  tone,  — 

"  Where  is  Dora?     Isn't  she  coming?" 

"  Not  yet.    Molly  waked  up,  and  Dora  is  giving  her  some 


220  MAN    VERSUS    DOG. 

supper.  She  said  she  would  come  as  soon  as  she  had  done. 
You  didn't  know,  Mr.  Burroughs,  that  Dora  has  an  adopted 
child,  did  you?" 

"  No,  indeed.  She  is  young  to  undertake  such  responsi 
bility,"  said  Mr.  Burroughs  a  little  curiously. 

"  This  is  a  little  foreigner  too,  that  Dora  picked  up  in  the 
road.  No  one  knows  who  she  may  be,  or  what  dreadful 
people  may  come  after  her  any  day.  Dora  is  so  queer  !  " 

"Will  you  have  a  biscuit,  Kitty?  Mr.  Burroughs,  let 
me  give  you  some  of  this  peach  ?  We  shall  be  sorry  to 
leave  our  peach-orchard  behind  in  going  to  the  West.  I 
suppose,  however,  one  can  soon  be  started  there." 

And  Karl,  determined  not  to  allow  Kitty  the  chance  of 
making  any  of  her  spiteful  little  speeches  about  Dora  in 
presence  of  the  visitor,  kept  the  conversation  upon  purely 
impersonal  topics,  until  they  rose  from  table,  and  the  two 
gentlemen  strolled  out  upon  the  porch  at  the  western  door ; 
while  Kitty  ran  up  to  call  Dora,  whom  she  found  sitting 
beside  the  bed,  with  Sunshine's  head  lying  upon  her  arm. 

"  Isn't  she  asleep?"  whispered  Kitty. 

The  child  half  opened  her  eyes,  and  murmured  drowsily,  — 

"  I  want  to  ride  on  the  elephant.     It's  my  little  wife.'" 

"  What  did  she  say,  Dora?" 


MAN   VERSUS    DOG.  221 

"  Hush  !  She  is  out  of  her  head,  I  think.  She  has 
been  saying  I  was  her  little  wife,"  whispered  Dora. 

"  Well,  that's  English,  anyway,"  replied  Kitty,  staring 
at  the  child.  "  What  do  you  suppose  she  is?" 

"  I  don't  know.  There,  pet,  there  !  Hus — h  !  "  As  she 
spoke,  Dora  carefully  withdrew  her  arm  from  under  the 
little  head,  where,  in  the  August  night,  the  hair  clung  in 
moist  golden  spirals,  and  a  soft  dew  stood  upon  the  white 
forehead. 

u  I'll  stay  and  fan  her  for  a  while  longer,  she  looks  so 
warm,"  whispered  Dora. 

"  No,  no !  come  down  and  eat  your  supper,  and  help 
clear  away.  Charley  asked  Mr.  Burroughs  to  stay  all 
night,  and  I  guess  he  will.  Isn't  he  real  splendid?  Come 
down,  and  talk  about  him." 

Sunshine  slept  soundly ;  and  Dora,  half  reluctantly,  suf 
fered  herself  to  be  led  away  by  her  cousin,  closing  the  door 
softly  behind  her,  and  leaving  the  little  child  to  dreams  of 
a  home  so  far  away,  and  yet  so  near ;  of  a  vanished  past, 
that,  even  in  this  moment,  stretched  a  detaining  hand  from 
out  the  darkness,  groping  for  her  own;  of  human  love 
immortal  as  heaven,  and  yet,  for  the  moment,  less  trust 
worthy  than  the  instinct  of  the  brutes  :  for  if  Mr.  Thomas 


222  MAN    VERSUS    DOG. 

Burroughs,  instead  of  being  a  highly  cultivated  and  intel 
lectual  man,  had  been  a  dog  of  only  average  intelligence, 
'Toinette  Legrange  would  already  have  been  discovered, 
and,  before  another  sunset,  the  slow  agony  devouring  her 
mother's  heart  would  have  been  relieved. 

But  to  each  of  us  our  gifts ;  and  Mr.  Burroughs,  never 
suspecting  how  deficient  were  his  own,  strolled  with  his 
host  beneath  the  trees,  until  the  appearance  of  the  young 
ladies  upon  the  porch;  when  he  joined  them,  and  resumed 
his  conversation  with  Dora.  From  army  matters,  the  talk 
soon  wandered  to  the  new  prospects  of  Col.  Blank's 
heiress  ;  and  Mr.  Burroughs  found  himself  first  amused, 
then  animated  and  interested,  quite  beyond  his  wont,  in  the 
young  girl's  plans  and  expectations. 

It  was  late  when  the  party  separated  ;  and  as  the  guest 
closed  the  door  of  the  rosy-room,  and  cast  an  admiring 
glance  over  its  neat  appointments,  he  muttered  to  himself,  — 

"  What  a  bright,  fresh  little  room  !  and  what  a  brighter, 
fresher  little  girl ! — as  different  from  thy  city  friends,  Tom 
Burroughs,  as  the  cream  she  pours  is  from  the  chalky  com 
position  of  the  hotels.  Thou  dost  half  persuade  me  to  turn 
Hoosier,  and  help  thee  convert  the  wilderness  to  a  blooming 
garden,  O  darlingost  of  Darlings  !  " 


MAN    VERSUS    DOG. 


And  as  the  young  man,  with  a  half-smile  upon  his  lip*. 
set  sail  for  the  vague  and  beautiful  shores  of  Dreamland,  a 
bright,  sweet  face,  lighted  by  two  earnest  eyes,  seemed  to 
herald  him  the  way,  and  join  itself  to  all  his  fairest  fancies. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

MRS.    GINNISS    HAS   A    VISITOR. 

HEAVILY  went  the  days  in  the  lowly  home  of  Mrs. 
Giuuiss  and  her  son.  Teddy  sought  early  and  late  for 
employment,  disdaining  nothing,  however  humble,  whereby 
he  might  earn  a  few  cents,  and  working  as  diligently  at 
street-sweeping,  dust-gathering,  errand-running,  or  horse- 
holding,  as  he  had  ever  done  in  the  way  of  gaining  an 
education  under  the  kind  tuition  of  his  late  master. 

Every  night  he  brought  home  some  small  sum,  and 
silently  placed  it  in  his  mother's  hand  ;  nor,  though  she 
urged  it,  would  he  retain  a  penny  for  himself,  or  indulge 
in  any  of  the  small  luxuries  he  had  in  former  days  enjoyed 
so  much. 

"  Go  buy  a  wather-million,  honey,  or  get  an  ice-crame  ; 
sure  it's  nothin*  at  all  ye're  atin',"  the  fond  mother  would 
say :  but  Teddy  always  shook  his  head,  or,  if  the  matter 
were  urged,  took  his  cap  and  went  out,  always  with  the 

224 


MRS.    GINNISS    HAS    A    VISITOR.  SfZ.J 

weary  step  that  bad  become  habitual  to  him,  aad  returned 
110  more  until  bedtime. 

"  It's  frettiii'  himsilf  to  his  grave  the  crather  is,"  said 
poor  Mrs.  Ginuiss,  and  tried  in  many  a  motherly  way  to 
make  home  pleasant  to  her  boy,  and  to  re-awaken  the  am 
bition  that  seemed  quite  dead  in  his  heart.  No  more 
reading  aloud  now,  of  which  he  had  been  so  fond  ;  no  more 
recitals  of  interesting  or  humorous  scenes  in  office  or  street ; 
no  more -wise  opinions  upon  public  events:  all  the  boy's 
boyish  conceit  and  self-esteem,  germs  in  a  strong  character 
of  worthy  self-respect,  seemed  crushed  out  of  him.  Patient, 
humble,  silent,  one  could  hardly  recognize  in  this  Teddy 
Ginniss  that  other  Teddy,  whose  cheery  voice,  frequent 
laugh,  positive  opinions  and  wishes,  and  good-humored 
self-satisfaction,  had  been  the  leading  features  of  his  modest 
home.  , 

Poor  Mrs.  Ginniss  longed  to  be  contradicted  or  instructed 
or  laughed  at  once  more,  and  fought  against  her  son's  sub 
missive  respect  as  another  mother  might  have  done  against 
disobedience  or  insolence. 

"  Can't  ye  be  mad  nor  yet  be  merry  at  nothiii',  Teddy?  " 
asked  she  impatiently  one  day. 
15 


226  MRS.    GINNISS    HAS    A    VISITOR. 

'*  I'm  thinking  I'll  never  be  merry  again,  mother,"  said 
Teddy  sadly,  as  he  left  the  room. 

It  was  in  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day,  that  Mrs.  Ginniss, 
sitting  at  her  sewing  in  melancholy  mood  enough,  heard  a 
light  tap  at  her  door,  and,  opening  it,  found  upon  the  thresh 
old  a  lady,  elegant  in  her  simple  dress  of  gray,  who 
asked,  — 

"Are  you  Mrs.  Ginniss?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am  ;  I'm  that  same,"  said  the  laundress,  staring 
strangely  at  the  lovely  face  framed  in  a  shower  of  feathery, 
golden  ringlets,  and  lighted  by  large  violet  eyes  as  sad  as 
they  were  sweet. 

"  Will  ye  be  plazed  to  walk  in,  ma'am?  "  continued  she. 
"  It's  but  a  poor  place  for  the  likes  uv  yees." 

The  lady  made  no  reply,  but,  gliding  into  the  room,  stood 
for  a  moment  -looking  about  it,  and  then  turning  to  the  Irish 
woman,  who  still  regarded  her  in  the  same  awestruck  man 
ner,  said  jdteously,  — 

"  I  am  her  mother  !  " 

"  Sure  an'  I  knowed  it  the  minute  I  sot  eyes  on  ye  ;  for  it's 
the  same  swate  face,  an'  eyes  that's  worse  nor  cryin',  ye've 
got ;  an'  the  same  way  of  a  born  lady,  so  quite  an*  so  grand. 
Och  !  it  wor  a  purty  darlint,  it  wor ;  an'  it's  me  own  heart 


MRS.    GINNISS    HAS    A    VISITOR.  227 

that's  sore  for  her  the  day,  forbye  your'n  that's  her  borued 
mother  ;  and,  if  it  wormy  own  life  that  'ud  fetch  her  back  to 
yees  "  — 

-.  But  here  the  long  breath  on  which  Mrs.  Ginniss  had  started 
came  £o  an  end,  and  with  it  the  impulse  of  consolation  and 
self-defence  that  had  so  far  sustained  her  ;  and  with  a  wild  cry 
of  u  Wurra,  wurra  !  och  the  black  day  that's  in  it !  "  she 
sank  upon  a  chair,  and  buried  her  head  in  her  apron,  sobbing 
loudly. 

The  visitor,  hardly  regarding  her,  still  stood  in  the  centre 
of  the  little  room,  her  sad  eyes  wandering  over  its  humble 
furniture  and  adornments  as  if  each  one  were  a  relic. 

"  Are  there  some  little  things  of  hers,  clothes  or  playthings 
or  books,  —  any  thing  she  touched  or  loved  ? "  asked  she 
presently  in  a  hushed  voice. 

Mrs.  Ginniss,  still  crying,  rose,  and  opened  a  drawer  in 
the  pine  bureau,  which,  with  a  looking-glass  and  some  vases 
of  blue  china  upon  it,  stood  as  the  ornamental  piece  of  furni 
ture  of  the  place. 

"  Here  they  bees,  ivery  one  uv  'em,  and  poor  enough  for 
her,  an'  yit  the  bist  we  could  git,"  said  she. 

More  as  a  bird,  long  restrained  and  suddenly  set  free, 
would  dart  toward  the  tree  where  nest  and  young  awaited  it, 


i>23  MRS.    GINNISS    HAS    A   VISITOR. 

than  in  the  ordinary  mode  of  human  movement,  the  mother, 
so  long  hungering  for  smallest  tidings  of  hei  child,  darted  upon 
this  sudden  mine  of  wealth,  and,  bending  low,  seemed  to 
caress  each  object  with  her  eyes  before  touching  it.  Then^ 
tearing  off  her  gloves,  she  laid  her  white  lingers  softly  upon 
the  coarse  garments,  the  broken  toys,  the  few  worn  books, 
and  bits  of  paper  covered  with  pencil-marks,  the  strip  of  gay 
patchwork  with  the  needle  still  sticking  in  it,  and  the  little 
brass  thimble  upon  it. 

At  one  end  of  the  drawer  stood  a  little  pair  of  slippers, 
with  some  slightly  soiled  white  stockings  rolled  up  and  laid 
within  them.  At  sight  of  these,  a  low  cry  —  it  might  have 
been  of  pain,  it  might  have  been  of  joy  —  crept  fr,om  be 
tween  the  pale  lips  of  the  mother  ;  and,  reverently  lifting  the 
little  shoes,  she  kissed  them  again  and  again,  in  an  eager, 
longing  fashion,  as  one  might  kiss  the  lips  of  a  dying  child 
whom  human  love  may  yet  recall  to  human  life. 

"  Thim's  the  little  shlippers  that  Teddy  saved  his  bit  uv 
spinding-money  till  he  could  buy  for  her,  bekase  he  said  the 
fut  uv  her  wor  too  purty  to  put  in  sich  sthrong  shoes  as  I'd 
got ;  and  thin  it  was  mesilf  that  saved  the  white  little  shtock- 
ings  out  uv  me  tay  an*  sugar  ;  an'  it's  like  a  little  fairy  (save 
me  for  spakin'  the  word)  that  she  lucked  in  'em." 


MRS.    GINNISS    HAS    A    VISITOR.  229 

Pressing  the  little  shoes  close  to  her  bosom  with  both  hands, 
the  mother  turned  those  mournful  eyes  upon  the  speaker, 
listening  to  every  word,  and,  at  the  end,  said  eagerly,  — 

"  Tell  me  some  more  !  Tell  me  every  thing  she  said  and 
did  !  Oh  !  was  she  happy  ?  " 

The  word  had  grown  so  strange  upon  her  lips  and  in  her 
heart,  that,  as  she  said  it,  all  the  tense  chords,  so  long  attuned 
to  grief,  thrilled  with  a  sharp  discord  ;  and,  turning  yet  paler 
than  before,  she  sank  upon  a  chair,  and,  leaning  her  forehead 
on  the  edge  of  the  open  drawer,  wept  such  tears  as,  pray  God, 
happy  mothers,  you  and  I  may  never  weep. 

"  O  my  baby,  my  baby !  O  my  little  child ! "  moaned 
she  again  and  again,  until  the  tender  heart  of  the  Irish 
woman  could  endure  no  longer ;  and,  coming  to  the  side  of 
her  guest,  she  knelt  beside  her,  and  put  her  arms  about  the 
slender  figure  that  shook  with  every  sob,  and  drew  the 
bright  head  to  rest  upon  her  own  shoulder. 

"  O  ye  poor  darlint !  ye  poor,  young  crather,  that's  got 
the  black  sorrer  atin'  inter  yer  heart,  all  the  same  as  if  ye 
wor  owld  an'  mane  an'  oogly,  like  mesilf!  —  it's  none  but 
Him  aboov  as  kin  comfort  yees.  Blissid  Vargin,  as  was 
a  moother  yersilf,  an'  knowed  a  moother's  pains  an'  a 
moother's  love,  an'  all  the  ins  an'  outs  uv  a  moother's  heart, 


230  MRS.    GINNISS    HAS   A    VISITOR. 

luck  down  on  this  young  moother  an'  help  her,  an'  spake  to 
thim  as  can  help  her  betther  nor  yees,  an'  give  her  back  her 
child  ;  bekase  ye  mind  the  time  yer  own  Howly  Child  wor 
lost,  an'  ye  sought  him  sorrerin' ;  an'  ye  mind  the  joy  an' 
the  comfort  that  wor  in  it  whin  he  was  foun'.  Och  Mother 
of  Jasus  !  hear  us  this  day,  if  niver  again." 

As  the  passionate  prayer  ended,  the  lady  raised  her  head, 
and  kissed  the  tear-stained  cheek  of  the  petitioner. 

u  Thank  you,"  said  she.  "  I  know  that  you  were  good  to 
her,  and  that  she  loved  you  ;  but,  oh  !  did  she  forget  me  so 
soon  ?  " 

Alas  poor  human  heart  whose  purest  impulses  are  tinged 
with  selfishness  !  You  who  have  lost  your  nearest  and 
dearest,  can  you  say  from  your  inmost  soul  that  you  would 
be  content  to  know  yourself  and  all  of  earth  forgotten,  or 
that  it  is  sorrow  to  you  to  fancy  that  a  lingering  memory,  a 
faint  regret  for  the  love  you  so  lavished,  stains  the  perfection 
of  heavenly  bliss  ? 

Tact  is  not  a  matter  of  breeding;  and  Chesterfield  or 
Machiavelli  could  have  found  no  better  answer  than  that  of 
Mrs.  Ginniss :  — 

"  Sure,  honey,  it  wor  alluz  she  remimbered  yees,  an' 
longed  for  yees  ;  though  the  little  crather  wor  that  yoong,  an' 


MRS.    GINNISS    HAS    A   VISITOR.  231 

the  faver  had  so  poot  her  about,  that  she  didn'  know  what  it 
\\or  she  wanted  nor  missed ;  but  it  wor  '  mother '  as  wor 
writ  in  the  blue  eyes  uv  her  as  plain  as  prentin'." 

u  And  was  she  very,  very  sick?"  asked  the  sad  voice  again. 

"  The  sickest  crather  that  iver  coom  back  from  hiviu's 
gate."  leplied  the  other  ;  and  then,  seating  herself  beside  her 
visitor,  she  began  at  the  beginning,  and  gave  a  long  detail 
of  the  circumstances  attending  Cherry's  first  appearance  in 
the  garret,  and  her  subsequent  illness  and  convalescence. 
Then  came  the  story  of  her  acquaintance  with  Giovanni ;  her 
passion  for  dancing  and  singing  with  him  ;  and  finally  their 
flight,  and  the  consternation  and  sorrow  of  her  adopted 
mother. 

Mrs.  Legrange  listened  to  every  thing  with  the  most  pro 
found  attention,  asking  now  and  then  a  question,  or  uttering 
an  exclamation ;  even  smiling  faintly  at  mention  of  the 
child's  graceful  dancing  and  sweet  voice  in  singing. 

u  Yes,  she  had  an  extraordinary  ear  for  music,"  mur 
mured  she  ;  "  and  to  think  of  her  remembering  being  called 
Cerito  ! " 

Nor  did  the  mother  fail  to  notice  how  the  whole  coarse 
fabric  of  the  Irish  woman's  story  was  embroidered  with  a 
golden  thread  of  love  and  admiration,  and  even  reverence, 


232  MRS.    GINNISS    HAS    A    VISITOR. 

for  the  exquisite  little  creature  she  had  cherisied  and  cared 
for  so  tenderly. 

u  Yes,  you  loved  her  ;  and  I  love  you  for  it,  and  will 
always  be  your  friend.  But  Teddy?"  asked  she  at  last; 
for  Mrs.  Ginniss,  through  the  whole  story,  had  carefully 
avoided  all  mention  of  her  son,  except  in  the  most  casual  and 
general  fashion.  Now,  however,  she  boldly  answered,  — 

"  An'  it's  mesilf  loved  the  purty  crather  well ;  but  my 
love  kim  no  nearer  the  love  the  b'y  had  for  her  than  the 
light  of  a  taller  candle  does  to  the  sun  in  hiven.  He  loved 
her  that  sthrong,  that  it  med  him  do  a  mane  thing  in  kapiu' 
her  whin  he  knowed  who  she  wor ;  but  sure  it's  betther  ter 
sin  fer  love  than  ter  sin  fer  sin's  sake." 

Mrs.  Legrange  smiled  sadly.  To  her  it  had  seemed,  from 
the  first,  small  matter  of  surprise,  however  great  of  regret, 
that  Teddy  should  have  found  'Toinette's  attractions  irre 
sistible  ;  or  that,  having  once  appropriated  her  as  his  little 
sister,  he  should  have  found  it  almost  impossible  to  relin 
quish  her. 

She  had  not,  therefore,  shared  at  all  in  the  indignation 
of  her  cousin  and  husband  toward  the  boy,  and  had  even 
solicited  the  former  to  retain  him  in  his  employ.  But  Mr. 
Burroughs,  kind,  generous,  and  forbearing  as  he  was,  cher- 


MRS.    GINNISS    HAS    A    VISITOR.  233 

ished  implacable  ideas  of  integrity  and  honor,  and  never 
forgave  an  offence  against  either,  whether  in  friend  or 
servant ;  so  that  his  cousin  had  finally  withdrawn  her  request, 
asking,  instead,  that  he  should  conduct  her  to  Mrs.  Giuniss's 
dwelling,  and  leave  the  rest  to  her.  This  the  young  man 
had  consented  to  do ;  and,  as  Mrs.  Legrange  would  not 
allow  him  to  wait  for  her,  he  had  privately  instructed  James 
to  do  so,  and  had  not  left  the  outer  door  until  he  saw  that 
faithful  servitor  upon  guard. 

Just  what  were  her  own  intentions  with  regard  to  Teddy 
or  his  mother,  Mrs.  Legrange  did  not  herself  know  ;  and, 
once  arrived  in  the  room  where  'Toinette  had  lived  out  the 
weary  mouths  since  her  loss,  all  other  ideas  had  faded  and 
disappeared  before  the  memories  there  confronting  her. 
Now,  however,  the  sweet  and  generous  nature  of  the  wo 
man  re-asserted  itself,  and  she  kindly  said,  — 

"  Yes :  I  see  how  great  Teddy's  temptation  was,  and  I 
cannot  wonder  that  he  yielded  to  it.  Any  one  would  have 
found  it  hard  to  part  with  'Toinette  ;  and  he,  poor  boy  ! 
could  not  know  how  I  was  suffering.  It  would  have  been 
different  if  you  had  known  who  she  was." 

u  Indade  an'  it  would.  One  moother  can  fale  fer  an 
other  ;  but  these  childhren  hasn't  the  sinse  till  they  gits  the 


234  MRS.    GINNISS    HAS    A   VISITOR. 

sorrer.  Small  fear  that  Teddy'll  iver  go  asthray  agin  from 
liglit-heartedness." 

u  Does  he  feel  very  sorry,  then?"  asked  Mrs.  Legrange 
timidly. 

"  Sorry  isn't  the  word,  ma'am.  It's  his  own  heart  as 
he  conshumes  day  an'  night,"  said  Mrs.  Ginniss  gloomily. 

"  Because  she  is  lost,  or  because  he  kept  her  in  the  first 
place  ?  "  asked  the  lady. 

"  It's  hard  tellin',  an'  he  niver  spakin'  whin  he  can  help 
it ;  but  I  belave  it's  all  together.  He  wor  sich  a  bowld  b'y, 
an'  so  sthrong  for  risin'  in  the  world  ;  an'  wor  alluz  sayin' 
as  he'd  be  a  gintleman  afore  he  died,  an'  readin'  his  bit 
books  and  writins,  an'  tillin'  me  about  the  way  the  counthry 
wor  goin' ;  an',  right  or  wrong,  it's  he  wor  ready  to  guide 
the  whole  of  'em.  An',  sure,  it  wor  wondherful  to  see  the 
sinse  that  wor  in  him  when  he  get  spakin'  of  thirn  things  ; 
an'  one  day,  whin  I  said  to  him,  — 

"  '  Sure,  Teddy,  an',  if  it's  one  or  tither  of  'em  is  Prisi- 
dent,  what  differ'll  it  make  to  us?'  An'  he  says,  says  he, 
4  Whist,  moother !  fer  one  day,  niabbe,  it's  I'll  be  the  Prisi- 
deut  mesilf ;  an'  what  way  'ud  that  be  fer  me  moother  lo 
be  talkiri'?' 

"  But  now  it's   no  sich    talk    ye'll   git  out  uv  him,  an' 


MItS.    GINNISS    HAS    A    VISITOR.  235 

niver  a  laugh  nor  a  joke,  nor  the  bit.  bowld  ways  lie  used 
to  have  wid  him.  An'  och,  honey  !  if  ye've  lost  yer  purty 
darlint,  it's  I've  lost  me  b'y  that  wor  as  mooch  to  me  ;  au' 
it's  I'm  the  heavy-hearted  woman,  this  day  an'  alluz." 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

TEDDY    FINDS     A     NEW     PATRON. 

TEDDY,  dragging  his  heavy  feet  up  the  stairs  in  the 
stifling  September  twilight,  paused  suddenly  to  listen  to  a 
murmur  of  voices  in  his  mother's  room. 

Some  one  was  speaking  ;  and  the  pure,  clear  tone  sent 
a  thrill  through  his  veins  like  the  shock  of  an  electric  bat 
tery.  No  voice  but  one  had  ever  sounded  like  that  to  him  ; 
and,  springing  up  the  remaining  stairs,  Teddy  threw  open 
the  door  of  the  chamber,  and  looked  eagerly  about  it. 

The  one  for  whom  he  looked  was  not  there  ;  but,  instead, 
a  lady,  whose  fragile  loveliness  reminded  him  so  strangely 
of  the  little  sister  as  she  had  looked  in  her  long  days  of 
convalescence,  that  he  stood  still,  staring  dumbly. 

"An'  where's  yer  manners,  Teddy  Ginniss?  Couldn' 
ye  see  the  lady  forenenst  ye,  widout  starin'  like  a  stuck 
pig  P-^  It's  dazed  he  is,  ma'am,  wid  seein'  the  likes  uv  yees 
in  this  poor  place." 

"  Come    here,  Teddy ;    I  am  waiting  to  see  you,"  said 

236 


TEDDY    FINDS    A    NEW    PATRON.  .    237 

the  lady.  And  again  the  pure,  silvery  tones  tingled  along 
Teddy's  nerves  with  a  sharp,  sweet  thrill. 

U*O  ma'am!  are  you  her  mother?"  cried  he  breath 
lessly. 

"  Yes,  I  am  her  mother,  and  have  come  to  see  you,  who 
loved  her  so  well,  and  your  good  mother,  who  cared  for  her 
when  she  was  motherless  "  — 

The  sweet  voice  faltered,  and  Teddy  broke  in,  — 

"  And  you  needn't  be  afraid  to  say  the  worst  that  can  be 
said,  ma'am.  I've  said  it  all  before  ;  and  you  can't  hate  me 
worse  than  I  hate  myself." 

"  Hate  you,  my  poor  boy?  I  only  pity  you  ;  for  I  have 
heard,  and  can  see,  how  much  you  suffer.  I  cannot  wonder 
that  you  should  love  her  so  well ;  and,  when  you  knew  who 
she  was,  I  dare  say  you  were  meaning  to  restore  her,  so 
soon  as  you  could  bring  yourself  to  it." 

"  Indeed  I  was,  ma'am.  I  can  take  God  to  witness  that 
I  was,"  said  Teddy  solemnly,  his  eyes  brimming,  and  his 
face  working  with  the  strong  emotion  he  tried  so  hard  to 
subdue. 

u  I  am  sure  of  it ;  and  I  love  you  more  for  the  love  you 
bore  her  than  I  blame  you  for  the  fault  that  love  led  you 


238  TEDDY    FINDS    A    NEW    PATRON. 

into."       She    paused    a   moment ;    and  then    the    insatiate 
mother  pride  and  love  burst  out,  demanding  sympathy. 

* 

"She  was  a  lovely  child,  wasn't  she,  Teddy?"  asked 
she  with  a  tremulous  smile. 

The  boy's  rough  face  lighted,  as  if  by  reflection  from  her 
own,  as  he  replied,  — 

u  O  ma'am  !  it's  so  good  of  you  to  let  me  talk  about 
her  !  There  was.  never  another  like  her  in  all  the  world,  I 
believe.  I  used  to  take  her  -walking  Sundays,  and  look  at 
all  the  children  we  met  (some  of  them  rich  folks'  children, 
and  dressed  all  out  in  their  best)  ;  but  there  was  never  one 
could  hold  a  candle  to  my  little  sister.  Oh  !  and  I  hope 
you'll  forgive  me  that  word,  ma'am  ;  for  I  know  it's  no  busi 
ness  I  had  ever  to  call  her  so,  or  think  of  her  so  ;  but  I  was 
so  proud  of  her  !  " 

"  I  don't  need  to  forgive  you,  Teddy.  It  shows  how 
much  you  loved  her ;  and  that  is  what  I  like  to  think  of 
best." 

"  But  if  you  please,  ma'am,  will  you  tell  me  what  is 
doiug  about  looking  for  her  ?  "  asked  Teddy  eagerly. 

"  Very  little  now,"  answered  the  lady  sadly.  "  The 
police  traced  Giovanni,  the  Italian  organ-grinder,  to  the 
station,  where  he  took  the  cars  for  the  West.  At  Springfield, 


TEDDY    FINDS    A    NEW    PATRON.  23 (J 

a  man  answering  to  his  description,  with  a  little  girl,  staid 
ail  night ;  and  next  day  the  child  danced  —  in  the  streets." 

The  mother's  face  grew  deadly  pale  as  she  said  the  last 
words,  and  she  paused  a  moment.  Teddy  turned  away  his 
head,  and  Mrs.  Ginniss  groaned  aloud.  Mrs.  Legrangc 
went  on  hurriedly  :  — 

"  Where  they  went  afterwards  is  not  yet  discovered  ;  but 
they  are  looking  everywhere.  It  seems  so  strange  "  — 

She  fell  into  a  momentary  revery,  thinking,  as  she 
thought  so  many,  many  times  in  every  day,  how  hard  and 
strange  it  seemed  that  no  clew  could  be  found  to  her  lost 
darling  beyond  the  terrible  day  that  saw  her  dancing  in  the 
public  streets,  —  an  ignominy,  that,  to  the  lady's  sensitive 
mind,  seemed  almost  equivalent  to  death. 

Perhaps  it  would  have  been  kinder  had  her  husband 
and  cousin  told  her  the  worst  they  knew  or  suspected,  and 
allowed  her  to  mourn  her  child  as  dead.  The  acute  detec 
tive  in  whose  hands  the  new  clew  had  been  placed  had  not 
only  traced  the  fugitives  to  Springfield,  as  Mrs.  Legraug« 
had  said,  but  had  ascertained  at  what  hour  they  left  the 
hotel  for  the  railway-station.  It  was  impossible,  however, 
to  discover  for  what  point  the  Italian  had  purchased  tickets, 
as  the  station-master  had  no  recollection  of  him,  and  the 


240  TEDDY   FINDS    A   NEW   PATRON. 

baggage-master  was  sure  he  had  seen  "  no  sich  lot"  as  was 
described  to  him. 

And,  from  Springfield,  a  man  may  take  passage  to  almost 
any  point  in  the  Union. 

One  startling  fact  remained,  and  upon  this  fact  the  whole 
report  of  the  detective  turned. 

The  train  leaving  Springfield  for  Albany  upon  the  night 
when  Giovanni  left  that  town,  encountered,  at  a  certain 
point,  another  train,  which,  by  some  incomprehensible  stu 
pidity,  was  supposed  to  have  passed  that  point  half  an  hour 
before. 

Consequences  as  usual,  —  frightful  loss  of  life  ;  a  game 
of  give  and  take  in  the  newspapers,  as  to  who  should  bear 
the  blame,  finally  resulting  in  a  service  of  plate  to  one 
party,  and  a  donation  in  money  to  the  othef1 ;  several  law 
suits  brought  by  enterprising  widowers  who  demanded 
consolation  for  the  loss  of  their  wives  ;  by  other  men,  who, 
having  skulked  the  draft,  now  found  themselves  minus  both 
legs  and  glory ;  by  spinsters  whose  bandboxes  had  been 
crushed,  and  by  young  ladies  whose  beauty  had  suffered 
damage  from  broken  noses  and  scattered  teeth. 

But,  among  all  these  sufferers,  not  one  remembered  see 
ing  an  Italian  organ-grinder  with  a  little  girl ;  until,  at  the 


TEDDY    FINDS    A    NEW    PATRON.  241 

very  last,  a  small  boy  was  found,  who  averred,  that,  on  the 
morning  after  the  disaster,  he  had  seen  a  sort  of  box,  with  a 
little  creature  chained  to  the  top  of  it,  floating  down  the 
river;  and  that  the  little  creature  had  seemed  very  much 
scared,  and  kept  laughing,  and  showing  all  his  teeth  ;  arid 
that  they  had  gone  on  and  out  of  sight.  And  that  was  all  he 
knew  about  it. 

The  river  !  —  what  use  to  question  those  dark  and  swollen 
waters?  what  use  to  demand  of  them  the  bright  form,  that, 
it  might  be,  slept  beneath  them?  —  it  might  be,  had  been 
washed  piecemeal  to  the  ocean? 

At  the  brink  of  that  river,  mournful  and  terrible  as  Styx, 
river  of  the  dead,  ended,  that  night,  the  story  of  many  a  life  ; 
and  why  not  that  of  the  child  so  strangely  lost,  so  nearly 
recovered,  and  now,  perhaps,  lost  again  forever? 

"  We  have  found  her,  I  am  afraid,  Tom,"  said  Mr. 
Legrange  to  his  cousin,  as  the  detective  closed  his  report, 
and  his  two  hearers  looked  at  each  other.  "  But,"  added 
the  father,  u  keep  on  ;  keep  every  engine  at  work  ;  search 
everywhere  ;  spend  any  amount  of  money  that  is  needful  ; 
leave  no  chance  untried.  Remember,  the  reward  is  always 
ready."  And,  when  they  were  alone,  he  added, — 

"  But,  Tom,  don't  tell  her.  She  can't  bear  it  as  we  can. 
16 


242  TKDDY    FINDS    A   NEW    PATRON. 

Poor  little  Sunshine  !  "     And,  to  show  how  well  ht  bore  it, 
the  father  hid  his  face,  and  sobbed  like  a  woman. 

"  No,  I  won't  say  any  thing,"  said  Tom  Burroughs  in  a 
strange,  choked  voice.  And  so  we  come  back  to  Mrs. 
Legrange  wistfully  saying, — 


"  It  seems  so  strange  "  — 


"  And  then,  with  the  patience  of  a  woman,  she  put  aside 
her  own  great  grief,  and  added,  — 

"  But,  Teddy,  I  am  going  to  do  something  for  you  ;  and 
what  shall  it  be?  You  wish  to  be  educated  ;  do  you  not?" 

41  O  ma'am !  but  I've  give  it  up  now." 

Mrs.  Legrauge  smiled  at  the  sudden  enthusiasm  and  the 
sudden  blank  upon  the  boy's  face,  and  answered,  almost 
gayly,  — 

"But  I  have  not  given  it  up  for  you,  Teddy.  —  By  the 
way,  Mrs.  Ginniss,  is  that  your  son's  real  name?  —  his 
whole  name,  I  mean?" 

"  It's  short  for  Taodoor,  I'm  thinkin',  ma'am  ;  but  it's 
joost  Teddy  we  alluz  calls  it." 

"  Ah,  yes !  Theodore.  That  is  a  very  nice  name,  and 
will  sound  better,  when  he  comes  to  be  a  lawyer  or  doctor 
or  minister,  than  Teddy.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Ye're  right,  ma'ain :  it's  a  dale  the  dacenter  uame  uv 


TEDDY    FINDS    A    NEW    PATRON.  243 

the  two ;  an'  Taodoor  I'll  call  him  iver  an'  always,"  said 
Mrs.  Ginniss  complacently. 

"  I  was  thinking  more  of  what  other  people  would  call 
him,"  said  Mrs.  Legrauge,  smiling  a  little.  "  Some  friends 
of  mine  are  interested  in  a  school  and  college  at  the  West, 
—  somewhere  in  Ohio,  I  believe.  It  is  a  very  fine  school, 
and  the  West  is  the  place  for  a  young  man  who  means  to 
rise.  So,  Theodore,  if  you  would  like  to  go,  I  shall  be 
very  happy  to  see  to  all  your  expenses  until  you  gradu 
ate,  and  to  help  you  about  settling  in  a  profession,  or  in 
trade,  as  you  like." 

Teddy's  healthy  face  turned  deadly  white  ;  and,  although 
his  lips  trembled  violently,  not  a  word  came  from  between 
them.  But  Mrs.  Ginniss,  raising  hands  and  eyes  to  heaven, 
called  down  such  a  shower  of  blessings  from  so  many  and 
varied  sources,  in  such  an  inimitable  brogue,  that  the  pen 
refuses  to  transcribe  her  rhapsody,  as  Mrs.  Legrange  failed 
to  comprehe'nd  more  than  the  half  of  it. 

u  I  am  glad  you  are  pleased  ;  and  it  pleases  me  as  much 
as  it  can  you,"  said  she,  half  frightened  at  the  Celtic  vehe 
mence  of  the  other's  manner  and  language. 

•'•  I  can't  say  what  I  want  to,  ma'am,"  spoke  a  low  voice 
beside  her ;  "  but  if  you'll  believe  I'm  grateful,  and  wait 


241  TEDDY    FINDS    A    NEW   PATRON. 

lil!  some  time  when  I  can  show  it  better  than  I  can  now — 
that  lime  will  come,  if  we  both  live.  And  when  I'm  a 
man,  if  she  isn't  found  first,  I'll  go  the  world  round  but  I'll 
find  her,  and  Jovarny  too  :  I'll  promise  that." 

A  wan  smile  played  over  the  lovely  face,  as  Mrs.  Le- 
grange,  laying  her  hand  upon  the  boy's,  said  kindly, — 

"  If  she  is  not  found  before  then,  Teddy,  I  shall  not  be 
h^re  to  know  it." 

Then  going  to  the  drawer,  still  standing  open,  she 
said,  — 

"  May  I  have  some  of  these  little  things,  Mrs.  Ginniss  ; 
not  all,  —  for  I  know  that  you  love  them  too,  —  but  some 
of  them?" 

So  Mrs.  Giuniss  made  a  package  of  the  relics  ;  and  Teddy 
asked  and  obtained  the  privilege  of  carrying  it  home  for 
his  new  friend,  while  James  stalked  discontentedly  behind. 

Upon  the  way,  Mrs.  Legrange  said  quietly,  "  I  left  a 
little  money  in  the  drawer,  Theodore.  It  is  to  buy  you 
some  new  clothes,  and  whatever  else  you  and  your  mother 
need  most.  And  I  have  just  thought  of  something  else. 
How  would  your  mother  like  living  in  the  country?" 

"  Very  much,  ma'am,  I  think.  Her  father  had  a  farm 
in  Ireland,  and  she  is  mighty  fond  of  telling  about  it." 


TEDDY    FINDS    A    NEW    PATRON.  24o 

"  Well,  Mr.  Legrange  has  recently  made  me  a  present  of 
a  nice  old  farmhouse  somewhere  in  the  western  part  of  the 
State,  thinking  I  might  like  to  go  there  for  a  few  weeks  in 
the  summer.  It  is  a  lovely  place,  they  say ;  and,  if  your 
mother  would  like  it,  she  might  go  there  and  keep  the 
house  for  me.  A  man  is  going  to  take  care  of  the  farm, 
and  he  could  board  with  her." 

u  That  would  be  first-rate,  ma'am,"  said  Teddy  enthusi 
astically.  "But  you're  doing  too  much  for  us  entirely." 

"  You  were  kind  to  her,  Teddy ;  and  I  cannot  do  too 
much  for  you,"  said  Mrs.  Legrange,  lowering  her  veil. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

WELCOME    HOME. 

4  TIME  they  was  here,  ain't  it,  miss?"  asked  Mehitable 
Ross...  wiping  the  flour  from  her  bare  arms,  and  coming  out 
upon  the  step  of  the  door. 

"  Yes,"  said  Dora  :  "  I  expect  them  every  moment.  Is 
tea  all  ready?" 

"  All  but  the  short-cakes.  I  hain't  put  them  down  to 
bake  yet,  because  they're  best  when  they're  first  done.  But 
the  cold  meat  is  sliced,  and  the  strawberries  dished,  and 
the  johnny-cake  a-baking." 

"Well,  keep  them  all  as  nice  as  you  can;  and  I  will 
walk  out  a  little,  and  meet  the  wagon." 

"Take  Argus  along,  you'd  better,  case  you  should  meet 
one  of  them  tiger-cats  Silas  told  on." 

Dora  smiled,  but  called,  "  Argus  ! "  and  at  the  word  a 
great  hound  came  leaping  from  one  of  the  out-buildings, 
and  fawned  upon  his  young  mistress  ;  then,  with  stately 
step  and  uplifted  head,  followed  her  along  the  faint  track 

246 


WELCOME    I1JME.  247 

worn  by  the  wheels  of  the  ox-cart  in  the  shor t,  sweet  grass 
of  the  prairie. 

The  young  girl  walked  slowly,  and,  at  the  distance  of 
some  rods  from  the  house,  stopped,  and,  leaning  against  the 
stem  of  a  great  chestnut-tree,  stood  looking  earnestly  down 
the  path  as  it  wound  into  the  forest  and  out  of  sight.  Then 
her  eyes  turned  slowly  back,  and  lingered  with  a  strange 
and  solemn  joy  upon  the  scene  she  had  just  left ;  while  from 
her  full  heart  came  one  whispered  word  that  told  the  whole 
story  of  her  emotion,  — 

"  Home !  " 

For  this  was  Outpost,  Dora's  inheritance  from  her  friend 
and  father,  Col.  Blank  ;  and  she  felt  to-night,  as  she  waited 
to  welcome  home  the  family  whose  head  she  had  become, 
that  her  duties  and  responsibilities  were  indeed  solemn  and 
onerous.  Not  too  much  so,  however,  for  the  courage 
and  strength  the  young  girl  felt  within  her  soul,  —  the  energy 
and  will  so  long  without  an  adequate  field  of  action. 

"  Plenty  to  do,  and,  thank  God,  plenty  of  health  and 
strength  to  do  it.  Experience  will  come  of  itself,"  thought 
Dora  ;  and  from  her  throbbing  heart  went  up  a  "  song  without 
words,"  of  joy  and  praise  and  high  resolve. 

It  was  June  now  ;  but  the  house  at  Outpost  had  only  beeu 


248  WELCOME    HOME. 

ready  for  occupancy  a  week  or  so.  The  family  had  left 
Massachusetts  about  the  first  of  October  in  the  previous 
autumn,  and  had  spent  the  winter  in  Cincinnati ;  Dora  having 
been  reluctantly  convinced  of  the  folly  of  proceeding  to  Iowa 
at  that  season.  With  the  opening  of  spring,  however,  she 
had  made  a  journey  thither,  escorted  by  Charles  Windsor, 
and  accompanied  by  Seth  and  Mehitable  Ross,  —  a  sturdy 
New-England  couple,  who  were  very  glad,  in  emigrating  to 
the  West,  to  avail  themselves  of  the  offers  made  by  Dora, 
who  engaged  the  man  as  principal  workman  upon  the  new 
farm,  and  his  wife  as  assistant  in  the  labors  of  the  house. 

The  site  selected  by  Col.  Blank  proved  a  very  satisfactory 
one.  But  Dora  rejected  his  plans  of  a  house,  submitted  to  her 
by  Mr.  Ferrars,  as  too  expensive,  and  too  elaborate  for  the 
style  of  living  she  proposed  ;  and  chose,  instead,  a  simple  log- 
cabin,  divided  into  four  rooms,  with  another  at  a  little  dis 
tance  for  the  accommodation  of  Ross  and  his  wife,  who  were 
also  to  keep  whatever  additional  workmen  should  be  re 
quired  upon  the  place. 

These  buildings,  neatly  and  substantially  formed  of  log? 
from  the  neighboring  wood,  were  placed  at  the  top  of  a  nat 
ural  lawn  half  enclosed  by  primeval  forest ;  while  at  its  foot, 
nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  wound  the  blue  waters  of 


WELCOME    HOME.  249 

the  DCS  Moines  ;  and  beyond  it,  swept  to  the  horizon,  mile 
after  mile  of  prairie,  limitless,  apparently,  as  ocean,  and,  like 
ocean,  solemnly  beautiful  in  its  loneliness  and  calm. 

The  house  faced  south  ;  and  eastward  from  its  door,  across 
the  lawn  and  into  the  rustling  wood,  wound  the  faint  wheel- 
track,  leading  back  to  civilization,  ease,  and  safety :  but 
Dora,  standing  beneath  the  chestnut-tree,  fixed  her  dreamy 
eyes  upon  the  setting  sun,  and,  half  smiling  at  her  own 
fancy,  thought,  — 

"  I  wonder  if  God  doesn't  make  the  western  sky  so  beau 
tiful  just  to  draw  us  toward  it.  There  is  so  much  to  do 
here,  and  so  few  to  do  it !  " 

A  distant  noise  in  the  forest  attracted  her  attention  ;  and 
Argus,  who  had  been  dreaming  at  the  feet  of  his  mistress, 
started  up  with  a  short  bark. 

"  Hush,  Argus  !  It's  the  wagon  ;  don't  you  know?  "  ex 
plained  Dora,  as  she  hastened  down  the  path,  and,  at  the  dis 
tance  of  a  few  hundred  rods,  caught  sight  of  the  black  heads 
of  Pope  and  Pagan,  and,  the  next  moment,  of  the  wagon  and 
its  occupants. 

These  were  Karl,  Kitty,  and  Sunshine,  the  two  last  of 
whom  had  remained  all  the  spring  in  Cincinnati,  while  Karl 
and  Dora  had  vibrated  between  that  city  and  Outpost ;  for 


250  WELCOME    HOME. 

Dora,  while  choosing  to  superintend  the  building  of  her  house, 
and  opening  of  the  farm  operations  in  person,  had  not  wished 
to  expose  her  cousin  or  the  delicate  child  to  such  discom 
forts  as  she  cheerfully  and  even  gayly  bore  for  herself. 

Kitty,  moreover,  had  found  the  change  from  her  native  se 
clusion  to  a  gay  city  very  pleasant ;  and  had  made  so  many 
acquaintances  in  Cincinnati,  that  she  declared  it  was  a  great 
deal  worse  than  leaving  home  to  abandon  them  all. 

"  Oho !  here's  the  general  come  to  meet  us !  Whoa, 
Pope  !  don't  you  see  your  mistress  ?  Now,  then  !  "  shouted 
Karl ;  while  Kitty  cried,  — 

"  O  Dora  !  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  alive  !  "  And  little  Sun 
shine,  jumping  up  and  down  in  the  front  of  the  wagon,  ex 
claimed,  — 

"  Dora's  come  !  Dora's  come  !  Karlo  said  we'd  come  to 
Dora  by  and  by  !  " 

"  O  you  little  darling !  if  Dora  isn't  glad  to  see  you 
again  !  Kitty,  how  do  you  do  ?  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  !  " 

She  had  jumped  into  the  wagon  as  she  spoke  ;  and,  after 
giving  Kitty  a  hearty  kiss  and  hug,  she  took  Sunshine  in  her 
arms,  and  buried  her  face  in  the  child's  sunny  curls. 

"  Am  I  your  own  little  girl,  Dora?  and  do  you  love  me 
same  as  you  always  did?"  asked  Sunshine  anxiously. 


WELCOME    HOME.  251 

"  Kitty  said  you'd  so  much  to  think  about  i  ow,  that  maybe 
you  wouldn't  care  for  us." 

"  Oh  !  Kitty  never  meant  that,  dear,"  said  Dora  quickly  ; 
and  Kitty,  with  rather  a  forced  laugh,  added, — 

"  Of  course  I  didn't.  •  It  was  only  a  joke,  Molly.  You 
talked  so  much  about  Dora,  I  wanted  to  plague  you  a 
little." 

The  child  looked  earnestly  at  her  for  a  moment ;  and  then, 
putting  her  arms  about  Dora's  neck,  hid  her  face  upon  her 
bosom,  murmuring,  — 

"  I'm  glad  I've  got  Dora  again  !  " 

u  Well,  now  everybody  else  is  attended  to,  hasn't  the 
general  a  word  for  his  humble  orderly?"  asked  Karl,  turn 
ing  to  smile  over  his  shoulder  at  the  group  behind. 

"  Why,  you  jealous  old  Karl !  you  know  you've  only  been 
away  two  weeks,  and  the  girls  I  have  not  seen  for  almost  as 
many  months  :  besides,  I  told  you  not  to  call  me  general,  and 
yourself  orderly." 

"  Oh  !  that  reminds  me  of  a  new  name  for  pet.  You  know 
she  persists  in  calling  me  Karlo  ;  so  I  have  given  her  the  title 
of  Dolce  :  and  the  two  of  us  together  are  going  some  day  to 
paint  pictures  far  fairer  than  those  of  our  great  original." 

"Carlo  Dolce?      Yes:   Mr.  Brown  told  me    about   him 


'252  WELCOME    HOME. 

once,  and  said  his  name  only  meant  sweet  Charley,"  said 
Dcra  simply 

"  I  wonder,  then,  that  you  should  have  left  it  for  Sunshine 
to  discover  how  appropriate  the  name  is  to  me,"  said  Karl 
with  mock  gravity. 

"  I'll  call  you  sweet  Charley  if  you  like  ;  only  it  must  be 
at  all  times,  and  before  all  persons,"  said  Dora  roguishly. 

"  No,  I  thank  you,"  replied  her  cousin,  laughing. 
"  Fancy  Parson  Brown's  face  if  he  should  hear  such  a  title, 
or  Seth's  astonishment  if  you  told  him  to  call  sweet  Charley 
to  dinner !  But  isn't  Dolce  a  pretty  name  ?  Let  us  really 
adopt  it  for  her." 

"  Well,  if  she  likes ;  but  I  shall  call  her  Sunshine  still, 
sometimes." 

u  What  say,  pet?  will  you  have  Dolce  for  a  name?  "  asked 
Karl,  turning  to  pinch  the  little  ear  peeping  from  Sunshine's 
curls. 

"I  don't  know;  would  you,  Dora?"  asked  the  child, 
gravely  deliberal  ing. 

"  Yes  :  I  think  it  is  pretty." 

"  And  Kitty  sha'n't  call  me  Molly  any  more  ;  shall  she?  " 

"  Don't  you  like  Molly  ?  " 

"  No :  because  that  man  in  Cincinnati  asked  me  if  my 
last  name  was  Coddle  ;  and  it  ain't." 


WELCOME    HOME.  253 

"  Oh,  dear  !  what  an  odd  little  thing  she  is  !  "  exclaimed 
Kitty.  "  It  was  Mr.  Thomson,  Dora ;  and  he  is  so  witty, 
you  know !  And  one  day  he  asked  the  child  if  her  name 
wasn't  Miss  Molly  Coddle,  just  for  a  joke,  you  see  ;  and  we 
all  laughed :  but  she  ran  away ;  and,  when  I  went  to  my 
room,  there  she  was  crying,  and  wouldn't  come  down  again 
for  ever  so  long.  She's  a  regular  little  fuss-bunch  about 
such  things." 

"  Very  strange,  when  you  and  I  are  so  fond  of  being  ridi 
culed  and  laughed  at !  "  remarked  Karl  gravely  ;  and  Sun 
shine  whispered, — 

"Am  I  a  fuss-bunch,  Dora?" 

Dora  did  not  answer,  except  by  a  little  pat  upon  the  child's 
rosy  cheek,  as  she  exclaimed,  — 

"  Here  we  are  !  Look,  Kitty  !  that  is  home  ;  and  we  must 
bid  each  other  welcome,  since  there  is  no  one  to  do  it  for  us 
both  except  Mehitable,  and  I  don't  believe  she  will  think  of 
it." 

"  Well,  I  must  say,  Dora,  you've  got  things  to  going 
a  great  deal  better  than  I  should  expect,"  said  Kitty  gra 
ciously,  as  she  looked  about  her.  "  Why,  that  sweetbriei 
beside  the  door,  and  the  white  rose  the  other  side,  are 
just  like  ours  at  home  ;  and  the  woodbine  growing  up  the 
corner  too  !  " 


254  WELCOME    HOME. 

"  They  carne  from  the  old  home,  every  one  of  them,"  said 
Dora,  smiling  happily.  "  I  wrote  in  the  spring,  and  asked 
Mr.  Burroughs  to  be  so  kind  as  to  ask  whoever  lives  in  the 
house  to  take  up  a  little  root  of  each  of  the  roses,  and  send 
them  to  me  by  express.  You  know  he  said,  when  we  left, 
that  we  should  have  any  thing  we  liked  from  the  place,  then  or 
afterwards.  So  he  wrote  such  a  pleasant  note,  and  said  he 
had  sold  the  house  to  a  cousin  of  his,  a  Mr.  Legrange,  who 
had  made  a  present  of  it  to  his  wife  ;  but  I  could  have  the 
slips  all  the  same :  and  next  day,  to  be  sure,  they  came,  all 
nicely  packed  in  matting,  and  some  other  plants  with  them. 
Karl  brought  them  out  and  set  them  in  April ;  and  they 
are  growing  beautifully,  you  see.  Wasn't  Mr.  Burroughs 
good?" 

Kitty  did  not  answer.  She  was  bending  low  over  the 
sweetbrier,  and  inhaling  the  fragrance  of  its  leaves.  Karl 
and  Sunshine  had  driven  to  the  barn,  and  the  girls  remained 
alone.  Dora  glanced  sharply  at  her  cousin  once,  and  then 
was  turning  away,  when  Kitty  detained  her,  and  said  in  a 
low  voice,  — 

"  My  mother  planted  that  sweetbrier,  and  used  to  call  it 
her  Mamie-bush,  after  me." 

u  I  know  it,"  said  Dora  softly. 


WELCOME    HOME.  255 

"And  that  was  the  reason  you  brought  it  here.  And  I 
have  been  cross  to  you  so  much !  But  I  did  love  her  so, 
Dora  !  oh,  you  don't  know  how  much  I  loved  my  mother ! 
That  is  the  reason  I  never  will  let  any  one  call  me  Marnie 
now.  It  was  the  name  she  always  called  me,  though  Kitty 
belongs  to  me  too  ;  but  she  said  it  so  softly  !  And  to  think 
you  should  bring  the  Marnie-bush  all  the  way  from  Massa 
chusetts  ! " 

"  I  thought  you  would  like  it,  dear,"  said  Dora  absently  ; 
while  her  eyes  grew  dim  and  vague,  and  around  her  mouth 
settled  the  white,  hard  line,  that,  in  her  reticent  nature, 
showed  an  emotion  no  less  intense  because  it  was  sup 
pressed. 

Then  her  arm  stole  round  Kitty's  waist,  and  she  whis 
pered  in  her  ear,  — 

"  We  two  motherless  girls  ought  to  feel  for  each  other, 
and  love  each  other  better  than  those  who  never  knew  what 
it  is  ;  shouldn't  we,  Kitty?" 

"  We  should  that,  Dora,"  returned  her  cousin  with  em 
phasis  ;  "  and  I  don't  believe  I  shall  forget  again  right 
away.  Let  us  begin  from  now,  and  see  how  good  we  can 
be  to  each  other." 

Dora's  kisses,  except  for  Sunshine,  were  almost  as  rare  as 


256  WELCOME    HOME. 

her  tears ;  but  she  gave  ou«  now  to  Kitty,  who  accepted  it 
as  sufficient  answer  to  her  proposition. 

At  this  moment,  Mehitable,  who  had,  at  the  appearance 
of  the  wagon,  rushed  home  to  give  a  finishing  touch  to  her 
toilet,  was  seen  crossing  the  little  interval  between  the  two 
houses  with  an  elaborate  air  of  unconsciousness  of  observa 
tion,  and  carrying  a  large  white  handkerchief  by  its  exact 
centre. 

"  My  !  —  how  fine  we  look  !  "  whispered  Kitty. 

"This  is  my  cousin,  Miss  Windsor,  Mehitable,"  said 
Dora  simply.  "  I  believe  you  didn't  see  her  in  Cincinnati  ?  " 

"No:  she  was  away  when  we  was  there.  —  Happy  to 
make  your  acquaintance,  Miss  Windsor.  How  do  you  like 
out  here  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  yet.  I  never  tried  keeping  house  iu 
a  log-cabin.  You'll  have  to  show  me  how,  I  expect,"  said 
Kitty  rather  loftily. 

"  Lor  !  I  guess  you  know  as  much  as  I  do  about  it.  I 
never  see  a  log-cabin  in  my  life  till  we  come  out  here. 
My  father  had  a  fust-rate  house,  cla'borded  and  shingled, 
and  all,  down  in  Maine  ;  and  we  alluz  had  a  plenty  to  do 
with  of  every  sort :  so  I  hain't  no  experience  at  all  in  this 
sort  of  way." 


WELCOME    HOME.  2 

"  But  you  have  a  way  of  getting  on  without  it  that  is 
almost  as  good.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done 
without  Mehitable,  Kitty  ;  and  I  dare  say  she  will  help  you 
very  much  by  telling  all  the  ingenious  ways  she  has  con 
trived  to  make  our  rude  accommodations  answer.  You 
know,  as  we  are  all  beginning  together,  each  must  help  on 
the  other ;  and  we  must  all  keep  up  our  courage,  and  try  to 
be  contented." 

"  Well,  'I  must  say  I  never  see  one  that  kep'  up  her  own 
courage,  and  everybody  else's,  like  her,  since  I  was  born 
into  the  world,"  said  Mehitable,  turning  confidentially  to 
Kitty.  "  Talk  of  my  helping  her  !  Lor  !  if  it  hadn't  bee'n 
for  her,  I  never  would  have  stopped  here  over  night,  in  the 
world.  Why,  the  first  night,  I  didn't  do  nothing  but  roar 
the  whole  night  long.  Mr.  Ross  he  said  I'd  raise  the  river 
if  I  didn't  stop  :  but  in  the  morning  down  come  Miss  Dora, 
looking  so  bright  and  sunshiny,  that  I  couldn't  somehow 
open  my  head  to  say  I  wouldn't  stop  ;  and  then  she  begun  to 
talk  "  — 

"  Mehitable,  the  short-cake  is  done.     Will  you  speak  to 
Mr.    Windsor  ? "    called    Dora    from    within ;     and    Kitty 
entered,  saying,  — 
17 


258  WELCOME   HOME. 

"  How  nice  the  tea-table  looks  ! — just  like  home,  Dora  ; 
the  old  India  china  and  all." 

"  It  is  home,  Kit-cat.  Here  is  Karl,  and  here  is  little 
Sunshine.  Come,  friends,  and  let  us  sit  down  to  our  first 
meal  in  the  new  house,"  said  Dora :  and  Kitty,  subduing  a 
little  feeling  of  fallen  dignity,  seated  herself  at  the  side  of 
the  table ;  leaving  the  head  for  Dora,  who  colored  a  little, 
but  took  it  quietly. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

LIFE     AT      OUTPOST. 

AND  now  began  for  each  member  of  the  family  at  Out 
post  a  new  and  active  life. 

Kitty,  who,  young  as  she  was,  had  already  achieved  repu 
tation  as  a  notable  housekeeper,  found  quite  enough  to  attend 
to  in  domestic  matters,  and,  with  Mehitable's  help  and  coun 
sel,  soon  had  all  the  interests  and  nearly  all  the  comforts  of 
New-England  farm-life  established  in  her  Western  home. 
Even  the  marigolds  her  mother  had  always  raised  as  a 
flavoring  to  broths  ;  and  the  catnip,  motherwort,  peppermint, 
and  tansy,  grown  and  dried  as  sovereign  remedies  in  case 
of  illness  ;  and  the  parsley,  sage,  and  marjoram,  to  be  used 
in  various  branches  of  cookery,  —  flourished  in  their  garden- 
bed  under  Kitty's  fostering  care  ;  while  poor  Silas  Ross  was 
fairly  worried,  in  spite  of  himself,  into  digging  and  roofing 
an  ice-cellar  in  the  intervals  of  his  more  important  duties. 

u  Now  we'll  see,  another  summer,  if  we  can't  have  some 
butter  that's  like  butter,  and  not  like  soft-soap,"  remarked 

259 


200  LIFE    AT    OUTPOST. 

Kitty  complacently,  when  the  unhappy  Silas  announced  his 
task  complete. 

"  And  now  I  hope  I  can  sleep  in  my  bed  o'  nights  with 
out  hearing  '  Ice-house,  ice-house  ! '  till  I'm  sick  o'  the  sound 
of  ice,"  muttered  Silas,  walking  away. 

It  is  not  to  be  averred,  however,  that  all  this  thrift  was 
established  without  much  commotion  or  many  stormy  scenes  ; 
and,  not  unfrequently,  Mehitable  Ross  announced  to  her 
husband  that  "  she  wouldn't  stan'  it  nohow,  to  be  nosed 
round  this  way  by  a  gal  not  so  old  as  herself!  "  And  Kitty 
"  declared  to  gracious"  that  she  "  never  saw  such  a  topping 
piece  as  that  Hitty  Ross  since  she  was  born  ;  "  and,  if"  folks 
undertook  to  work  for  other  folks,  they  ought  to  be  willing  to 
do  the  way  they  were  told  ;  "  and  she'd  "  rather  do  the  whole 
alone  than  keep  round  after  that  contrary  creature,  seeing 
that  she  didn't  get  the  upper-hands  as  soon  as  her  back  was 
turned  !  " 

But  Dora,  without  appearing  to  listen  or  to  look,  heard  all 
and  saw  all.  Dora,  cheerful,  energetic,  and  calm,  knew  how 
to  heal,  without  appearing  to  notice  the  wound  ;  had  a  facul 
ty,  all  her  own,  of  leading  the  mind,  vexed  with  a  thousand 
trifles,  to  the  contemplation  of  some  aim  so  grand,  some 
thought  so  high,  some  love  or  beauty  so  serene,  that  it 


LIFE    AT    OUTPOST.  261 

turned  back  to  daily  life  calm  and  refreshed,  and  strength 
ened  to  do  or  to  endure  with  new  courage. 

"  Somehow  I  felt  ashamed  of  jawing  so  about  that  wash, 
when  Dora  came  in,  and  put  her  hands  into  the  tub,  and, 
while  she  was  rubbing  away,  began  to  tell  what  a  crop  of 
corn  we're  going  to  have  ;  and  how  the  folks  down  South, 
the  freedmen  and  all;  might  have  plenty  to  eat,  if  every  one 
did  as  well  as  we're  doing,"  said  Mehitable  to  her  hus 
band. 

uYes,"  replied  Seth :  '"she  stood  by  me  there  in  the 
sun  as  much  as  an  hour,  and  told  the  cutest  story  you 
ever  heard  about  the  Injins  believing  that  corn  is  a  live 
creter,  and  appeared  once,  in  the  shape  of  a  young  man 
named  Odahmin,  to  one  of  the  Injin  chiefs  called  Hiawatha  ; 
and  they  had  a  wrastle.  Hiawatha  beat,  and  killed  the  other 
feller,  and  buried  him  up  in  the  ground ;  but  he  hadn't 
more'n  got  him  under  'fore  up  he  come  agin,  or  ruther  some 
Injin-corn  come  up  :  but  they  called  the  green  leaves  his 
clothes  ;  and  the  tossel  atop,  his  plume  ;  and  the  sprouts 
was  his  hands,  each  holding  an  ear  of  corn,  that  he  give  to 
Hiawatha,  just  as  a  feller  that's  whipped  gives  another  his 
hat,  you  know." 

"Do  the  Injins  believe  all  that  now?"  asked  Mehitable 
contemptuously. 


262  LIFE    AT    OUTPOST. 

k'  They  do  so.  But,  I  tell  you,  I  never  knew  how  those 
two  rows  got  hoed  while  she  was  talking:  they  seemed  to 
slip  right  along  somehow  ;  and,  after  she  was  gone,  the  time 
seemed  dreadful  short  till  sundown,  I  was  thinking  so  busy 
of  what  she  said. 

"  Guess  you'd  been  cross  'cause  that  cultivator  didn't 
come  ;  hadn't  you  ?  "  asked  Mehitable  slyly. 

"  Yes  :  I  felt  real  mad  all  the  morning  about  it,  and  was 
pretty  grumpy  to  Windsor ;  for  I  thought  he  might  as  well 
have  sent  a  week  ago.  But,  by  George  !  I'd  like  to  see  the 
feller  that  'ud  be  grumpy  to  her." 

"  Well,  Dora,"  Kitty  was  saying  at  the  same  moment, 
u  I'm  glad  youVe  got  home  ;  for  the  first  thing  isn't  ready 
for  supper,  and  I've  just  done  ironing.  That  Hit  went  off 
home  an  hour  ago  ;  said  her  head  ached,  and  she'd  got  to  get 
the  men's  supper.  I  do  declare,  I'd  like  to  shake  that  woman 
till  her  teeth  rattled  ;  and  I  believe  I'll  do  it  some  day  !  " 

"  How  beautifully  the  clothes  look,  Kitty  !  I  think  they 
bleach  even  whiter  here  than  they  used  to  in  the  old  drying 
yard.  But  I  am  sorry  you  ironed  that  white  waist  of  mine  : 
I  was  going  to  do  it  myself.  Now,  Sunshine,  come  and 
tell  Aunt  Kitty  about  the  woodchuck  and  her  baby  that  we 
saw  ;  and  how  we  caught  little  chucky,  as  you  called  him  ; 
ana  all  the  rest." 


LIFE    AT    OUTPOST.  263 

'•  Dear  me  !  I  can't  stop.  "Well,  come  and  sit  in  my  lay, 
Dolly,  and  tell  if  you  want  to.  Dora,  do  sit  and  rest  a 
minute  :  you  look  all  tired  out." 

"  Oh,  no  !  but  Karl  is,  I  am  afraid.  He  walked  away  out 
behind  the  wheat-lot  this  afternoon  to  see  to  setting  some 
traps  for  the  poor  little  things  that  come  to  eat  it.  I  never 
saw  such  a  boy  when  there  is  any  thing  to  be  done.  lie 
goes  right  at  it,  no  matter  what  lies  between." 

"  You're  right  there,  Dora  ;  and  he  always  was  so  from 
a  child.  Well,  Dolly,  what's  the  story  ?  " 

"  Don't  call  me  Dolly,  please,"  said  the  little  girl  coaxingly. 

"  Well,  Dolce,  then,"  said  Kitty,  smiling  with  renewed 
good-nature.  And  while  Sunshine,  all  unconsciously,  com 
pleted  by  her  prattle  the  cure  that  Dora  had  begun,  the 
latter  quietly  and  rapidly  finished  the  preparations  for  tea. 

As  for  Sunshine,  never  did  a  child  so  well*  deserve  her 
name.  In  the  house  or  on  'the  prairie,  running  with  Argus, 
walking  demurely  beside  Karl,  or  riding  behind  Dora  upon 
ihe  stout  little  pony  reserved  for  the  use  of  the  young  mis 
tress  of  the  place,  it  was  always  as  a  gleam  of  veritable 
sunshine  that  she  came  ;  and  no  heart  so  dark,  or  temper  so 
gloomy,  as  to  resist  her  sweet  influence.  Constant  exercise 
and  fresh  air,  proper  food,  and  the  rigid  sanitary  laws  cstab- 


2G4  LIFE    AT    OUTPOST. 

lished  by  Dora,  had  brought  to  the  child's  cheek  a  richer 
bloom  than  it  had  ever  known  before  ;  while  her  blue  eyes 
seemed  two  sparkling  fountains  of  joy,  and  a  vivid  life 
danced  and  glittered  even  among  her  sunny  curls.  Lithe 
and  straight,  and  strong  of  limb  too,  grew  our  slender  little 
Cerito  ;  and,  although  every  motion  was  still  one  of  grace,  it 
was  now  the  assured  grace  of  strength,  instead  of  that  of  fra 
gility.  She  danced  too,  but  it  was  with  the  west  wind,  who, 
rough  companion  that  he  was,  whirled  her  round  and  round 
in  his  strong  arms,  or  tossed  her  hair  in  a  bright  cloud  across 
her  face  ;  while  he  snatched  her  hat,  and  sent  it  spinning  into 
the  prairie  ;  or  kissed  the  laugh  from  her  lips,  and  carried  it 
a\vay  to  the  wild  woods  to  mock  at  the  singing -birds. 
Argus  too  —  what  friends  he  and  the  child,  who  at  first 
had  been  afraid  of  him,  became  before  the  summer  was 
through  !  What  talks  they  held  !  How  merrily  they 
laughed  together !  and  how  serenely  Argus  listened  while 
Sunshiue  told  him  long  histories  of  imaginary  wanderings 
among  the  clouds,  in  enchanted  forests,  or  "  away  beyond 
the  blue  up  in  the  sky  "  !  Confidences  these  ;  for,  as  the  nar 
rator  whispered,  — 

"  Dora  doesn't  like  dream-stories,  and  Kitty  says,  4  Oh, 
nonsense  ! '  and  Karlo  laughs  :  so  you  mustn't  tell  a  word,  old 


LIFE    AT    OUTPOST.  2 05 

Argus."  And  Argus,  wagging  his  tail,  and  blinking  his 
bright  brown  eyes,  promised  never  to  tell,  and  faithfully 
kept  the  promise. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  vague  sense  of  loneliness  in  these  fan 
cies  ;  perhaps  it  was  the  lingering  longing  for  something 
she  had  lost  even  from  her  memory,  and  yet  not  wholly  from 
her  heart,  where,  as  we  all  know,  linger  loves  for  which  we 
no  longer  have  a  name  or  a  thought ;  perhaps  it  was  only 
the  dim  reflex  of  that  agony  consuming  her  mother's  heart, 
and  the  earnestness  with  which  it  longed  for  her :  but  some 
thing  there  was,  that,  at  intervals,  cast  a  sudden  shadow  over 
Sunshine's  heart ;  something  that  made  her  pale  and  still, 
and  deepened  the  dimples  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  until 
each  might  have  held  a  tear.  At  these  times,  she  would 
always  steal  away  by  herself  if  possible  ;  sometimes,  and 
especially  if  the  stars  were  out,  to  sit  with  folded  hands, 
gazing  at  the  sky ;  sometimes  to  lie  upon  her  little  bed,  her 
eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  until  the  bright  tears  gathered,  and 
rolled  slowly  down  her  cheeks:  but,  oftenest  of  all,  she 
would  call  Argus,  and,  with  one  hand  upon  his  glossy  head, 
waiidei  away  to  the  dim  forest,  and  seated  at  the  foot  of 
one  of  those  patriarchal  trees,  the  hound  lying  close  besivx 
her,  would  talk  to  him  as  she  never  talked  to  human  ears. 


2G6  LIFE    AT    OUTPOST. 

Once,  Karl,  returning  from  an  expedition  to  a  distant  part 
of  the  farm,  saw  her  thus,  and  half  in  fun,  half  in  curi 
osity,  crept  up  behind  the  great  oak  at  whose  foot  she  sat, 
and  listened. 

"  And  up  there  in  heaven,  Argus,"  she  was  saying,  "it's  all 
so  beautiful !  and  no  one  ever  speaks  loud  or  cross  ;  and  every 
one  has  shining  white  clothes,  and  flowers  on  their  heads  ; 
and  some  one  is  there  —  I  don't  know  —  I  guess  it's  an  angel ; 
but  she's  got  soft  hands,  and  such  pretty  shiny  hair,  and 
eyes  all  full  of  loving  me.  I  dream  about  her  sometimes  ; 
but  I  don't  know  who  she  is :  and  you  mustn't  tell,  Argus. 
Sometimes  I  want  to  die,  so  as  to  go  to  heaven  and  look  for 
her.  Argus,  do  you  want  to  go  to  heaven?" 

The  brown  eyes  said  that  Argus  wished  whatever  she  did  ; 
and  Sunshine  continued  :  — 

"  Well,  some  day  we'll  go.  I  don't  know  just  how  ;  I 
don't  believe  we'd  find  the  way  if  we  went  now :  but  some 
day  I  shall  know,  and  then  I'll  tell  you.  Sometimes  I  feel 
so  lonesome,  Argus  !  oh,  so  dreadful  homesick  !  but  I  don't 
now.  You're  a  real  little  comforter,  Argus.  That's  what 
Dora  called  me  the  other  night  when  Kitty  was  cross  :  and 
Dora  cried  a  little  when  she  came  to  bed,  and  didn't  know  I 
was  awake  ;  and  I  kissed  her  just  so,  Argus,  and  so." 


LIFE    AT    OUTPOST.  2G7 

In  the  game  of  romps  and  kisses  that  ensued,  Karl  stole 
away,  and,  after  repeating  the  child's  prattle  to  Dora,  said 
thoughtfully,  — 

"There's  something  strange  about  her,  Dora  ;  something 
different  from  any  of  us.  She  seems  so  finely  and  delicately 
made,  and  as  if  one  rude  jar  might  destroy  the  whole  tone 
of  her  life.  If  ever  a  creature  was  formed  of  peculiar, 
instead  of  common  clay,  it  is  Sunshine." 

"  Yes,  and  she  must  be  shielded  accordingly,"  said  Dora. 
But,  as  she  walked  on  beside  Karl,  she  vaguely  wondered  if 
there  were  not  natures  as  finely  strung  and  as  sensitive  to 
suffering  as  Sunshine's,  but  united  with  so  reticent  an  exterior, 
and  such  outward  strength,  as  never  to  gain  the  sympathy  or 
appreciation  so  freely  bestowed  upon  the  exquisite  child. 

Such  introspection,  however,  was  no  part  of  Dora's 
healthy  temperament  ;  and  the  next  moment  she  had 
plunged  into  a  talk  upon  farm-matters  with  her  cousin,  and 
displayed  such  shrewdness  and  clear-sighted  wisdom  upon 
the  subject,  that  Capt.  Karl  laughingly  exclaimed,  as  they 
entered  the  house, — 

u  O  general !  why  weren't  you  born  a  man  ?  " 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

KITTY     IN    THE    WOODS. 

LEFT  to  his  own  guidance,  Capt.  Karl  would  have  asked 
no  better  life  than  to  follow  Dora  about  the  farm,  or  fulfil 
for  her  such  duties  as  she  could  not  conveniently  perform 
for  herself.  Nor  was  he  ever  troubled,  as  a  man  of  less 
sweet  and  genial  temper  might  have  been,  by  fears,  lest,  in 
thus  attending  upon  his  cousin's  pleasure,  he  sacrificed 
somewhat  of  manly  dignity  and  the  awful  supremacy  of 
the  sterner  sex.  "  Dora  knows  "  had  become  to  Karl  a 
sufficient  explanation  of  every  thing,  either  in  the  character 
or  the  administration  of  the  girl-farmer,  however  myste 
rious  it  might  seem  to  others ;  and  to  defer  to  Dora's  judg 
ment  and  wishes  was  perhaps  pleasanter  and  safer  in 
the  eyes  of  the  young  man  than  to  attempt  to  consult  his 
own. 

But,  pleasant  though  this  life  might  be  to  both,  it  came 
by  no  means  within  the  scope  of  Dora's  plans  ;  and,  so  soon 
as  the  family  were  thoroughly  settled  at  Outpost,  Karl 

268 


KITTY    IN   THE   WOODS.  209 

found  himself  urged  by  irresistible  pressure  to  the  pursu 
ance  of  his  medical  studies. 

Five  miles  from  Outpost,  in  the  youthful  town  of  Green 
field,  was  already  established  a  respectable  physician  of 
the  old  school,  who,  troubled  with  certain  qualms  aud 
doubts  as  to  the  ability  of  the  system  he  had  practised  «o 
many  years  to  bear  the  scrutiny  of  the  new  lights  thrown 
upon  it  by  the  progress  of  science,  was  very  glad  to  secure 
the  services,  and  even  advice,  of  a  young  man  educated  in 
the  best  medical  schools  of  the  Eastern  States  ;  and  not  only 
consented  to  take  Karl  into  his  office  as  student  until  the 
nominal  term  of  his  studies  should  have  expired,  but  offered 
him  a  partnership  in  his  practice  so  soon  as  he  should 
receive  his  diploma. 

The  arrangement  was  accordingly  made  ;  and  every  morn 
ing  after  breakfast,  Karl,  often  with  a  rueful  face,  often 
writh  an  audible  protest,  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode  to 
Greenfield,  leaving  the  household  at  Outpost  to  a  long  day 
of  various  occupations  until  his  return  at  night. 

Sometimes  Dora,  upon  Max,  her  little  Indian  pony, 
would  accompany  him  a  few  miles,  or  as  far  as  his  road 
led  toward  the  scene  of  her  own  labors  ;  but  no  Spartan 
dame  or  Roman  matron  could  more  sternly  have  resisted 


270  KITTY   IN   THE   WOODS. 

the  young  man's  frequent  entreaties  to  be  allowed  to  accom 
pany  her  farther  than  the  point  at  which  their  roads 
diverged. 

"  No,  sir !  You  to  your  work,  and  I  to  mine.  Sup 
pose  I  were  to  neglect  the  farm,  and  come  to  sit  in  Dr. 
Gershom's  office  all  day,"  argued  the  fair  young  moralist, 
but  found  herself  rather  disconcerted  by  her  pupil's  gleeful 
laugh,  as  he  replied,  — 

"  Good,  good !  Try  it  once,  do  ;  and  let  me  see  if  it 
would  be  so  very  bad.  I  think  I  could  forgive  you." 

Suppose,  then,  instead  of  arguing  any  more  with  you,  I 
jump  Max  over  this  brook,  and  leave  you  where  you  are?" 
said  Dora,  a  little  vexed  ;  and,  suiting  the  action  to  the 
word,  she  was  off  before  her  cousin  could  remonstrate. 

In  the  evening  of  the  day  when  this  little  scene  occurred, 
Karl,  upon  his  return  home,  found  Dora  seated  with  Sun 
shine  upon  the  grass  under  the  great  chestnut-tree. 

"  A  letter  for  you,  you  horrid  tyrant !  "  said  he,  taking 
one  from  his  pocket,  and  tossing  it  into  her  lap. 

"  She  isn't ;  and  you  are  a  naughty  old  Karlo  to  say  such 
names  !  "  cried  Sunshine,  flashing  her  blue  eyes  indignantly 
upon  the  -laughing  face  of  the  young  man. 

"  Such  names  as  what,  Dolce?"  asked  he,  jumping  from 


KITTY    IN   THE    WOODS.  271 

his  horse,  and  trying  to  catch  the  child,  who  evaded  his 
grasp,  and  replied  with  dignity, — 

u  It  isn't  any  consequence,  Karlo.  She  isn':  it,  and  you 
know  she  isn't." 

*  But  it  is  of  consequence  ;  for  I  don't  know  what  it  is 
she  isn't.  Please  tell  me,  mousey  ;  won't  you  ?  " 

"  She  isn't  a  tireout,  you  know  she  isn't,  then.  You 
sha'n't  laugh  !  Dora,  shall  Karlo  laugh  at  me?  shall  he?" 

"  No,  dear,  he  won't ;  but  you  mustn't  be  a  crs0o  little 
girl  if  he  does.  Now  run  to  the  house,  and  tell  Aunt  Kitty 
that  Karlo  has  come  home,  and  see  if  tea  is  ready." 

The  child  put  up  her  lips  for  a  kiss,  bestowed  a  glance 
of  dignified  severity  upon  the  offender,  and  walked  towards 
the  house  with  measured  steps  for  a  little  distance  ;  then, 
with  the  frolicsome  caprice  of  a  kitten,  made  a  little  caper 
in  the  air,  and  danced  on,  singing,  in  her  clear,  sweet 

voice,  — 

"  Dear,  dear,  what  can  the  matter  be  ? 
Karlo  cau't  stay  from  here !  " 

"  Funny  child  !  "  exclaimed  the  object  of  the  stave.  "  A 
true  little  woman,  with  her  loves  and  spites.  Who  is  the 
letter  from,  Dolo  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Brown,"  said  Dora,  slowly  folding  it,  and  rising 
from  her  seat  under  the  tree  to  return  to  the  house. 


272  KITTY   IN   THE    WOODS. 

"  Aha !  Seems  to  me  the  parson  is  not  so  attentive  as 
he  used  to  be.  Have  you  and  he  fallen  out?" 

"No,  indeed  !  we  are  the  best  of  friends  ;  and,  in  proof 
of  it,  this  letter  is  to  say  he  is  coming  to  make  a  little  visit 
at  Outpost,  if  convenient  to  us." 

"  And  is  it  convenient?"  asked  Karl  somewhat  curtly. 

"  Certainly ;  or,  at  least,  we  can  make  it  so.  Either 
you  can  take  him  into  your  room,  or  Kitty  can  give  him 
hers,  and  come  into  mine." 

Karl  said  nothing  ;  but,  as  they  walked  toward  the  house, 
his  face  remained  unusually  serious,  and  he  seemed  to  be 
thinking  deeply.  Dora  glanced  at  him  once  or  twice,  and 
at  last  asked  abruptly,  — 

"  Don't  you  want  Mr.  Brown  to  come,  Karl?" 

"  Certainly,  certainly,  if  you  do.  It  is  your  own  house, 
and  you  have  a  right  to  your  own  guests,"  replied  the  young 
man  coldly. 

Dora  colored  indignantly. 

"  For  shame,  Karl !  Did  I  ever  say  a  thing  like  that  to 
you  in  the  old  house  ?  and  would  you  have  been  pleased  if 
I  had?" 

"  No,  Dolo  ;  and  no  again.  But  you  never  were  a  selfish 
fool,  like  ine.  Yes,  I  am  glad  Mr.  Brown  is  coming;  and 


KITTY    IN   THE    WOODS.  273 

I  think  I  will  stay  at  Greenfield  while  he  is  here.  Then  he 
can  have  my  room." 

"  No,  no  :  that  won't  do  at  all.  He  conies  to  see  us  all ; 
anr]  of  course,  we  can  manage  a  room  without  turning  you 
out.  Kitty  can  come  into  mine  "  — 

"  Dora,  what  is  the  day  of  the  month?" 

"The  17th,  I  believe." 

"Yes,  the  17th  of  August;  and  seven  days  more  will 
bring  the  24th  of  August,  Dora." 

"  Of  course.  Do  you  suppose  he  will  be  here  by  that 
time?"  asked  Dora  unconsciously. 

Karl  looked  at  her  in  a  sort  of  comic  despair. 

"  Dora,  if  you  were  not  the  most  utterly  truthful  of  girls, 
you  would  be  the  most  cruel  of  coquettes." 

Dora's  eyes  rose  swiftly  to  his  face,  read  it  for  a  moment, 
and  then  fell ;  while  a  sudden  color  dyed  her  own. 

"You  remember  the  date  now?"  asked  Karl,  almost 
mockingly.  "  See  here  !  "  and,  taking  from  his  pocket  the 
memorandum-book  of  a  year  before,  he  opened  it  to  a  page 
bearing  only  the  words,  — 

"  Dora.     Wednesday,  Aug.  24." 

"  O  Karl !     I  thought "  — 

"  Stop,  general !     It  is  I  who  must  be  officer  of  the  day 

18 


274  KITTY   IN   THE    WOODS. 

on  this  occasion  ;  and  I  forbid  one  word.  I  only  wished 
to  let  you  see  that  I  have  not  forgotten.  And  so  Mr.  Brown 
is  coming  to  see  us?" 

Again  Dora  glanced  in  perplexity  at  her  cousin's  face, 
but,  this  time,  said  not  a  word.  Indeed,  if  she  had  wished, 
there  was  hardly  time  ;  for  Kitty,  appearing  at  the  door, 
called,  — 

"  Come,  folks,  come  !     Supper  is  ready  and  cooling." 

"  Coming,  Kit-kat ;  and  so  is  somebody  else ! "  cried 
Karl. 

"  Somebody?  Christmas  is  coming,  I  suppose  ;  but  not 
just  yet.  Did  you  hear  that  over  at  Greenfield?"  replied 
Kitty,  resting  her  hands  on  her  brother's  shoulders,  and 
graciously  receiving  his  kiss  of  greeting. 

"  It's  not  Christmas,  but  Parson  Brown,  who  is  coming ; 
aiid  I  brought  the  news  from  Greenfield,  although  I  did  not 
know  it  until  I  arrived  here,"  said  Karl. 

"  Oh,  a  letter  to  Dora  !  "  exclaimed  Kitty  quickly  ;  and 
over  her  face,  a  moment  before  so  bright,  fell  a  scowling 
cloud,  as  she  turned  away,  and  busied  herself  with  putting 
tea  upon  the  table. 

The  meal  was  rather  a  silent  one.  Kitty  was  decidedly 
sulky,  Dora  thoughtful,  and  Karl  a  little  bitter  in  his  forced 


KITTY   IN   THE    WOODS.  275 

gayety  ;  so  that  Sunshine,  sensitive  as  a  mimosa,  ate  but 
little,  and,  creeping  close  to  Dora's  side  as  they  rose  from 
the  table,  whispered,  — 

"  What's  the  reason  it  isn't  happier,  Dora  ?  " 

"Aren't  you  happy,  pet?  Come  and  help  me  wash  the 
teacups,  and  tell  me  how  the  kitties  do  to-day.  Have  you 
given  them  their  milk?" 

"  I  suppose  you  can  do  up  these  dishes  without  me.  I 
got  tea  all  alone  ;  and  I'd  like  to  take  my  turn  at  a  walk, 
or  something  pleasant,  now,"  said  Kitty  crossly 

"  Yes,  do,  Kitty.  Dolce  and  I  will  do  all  that  is  to  be 
done.  It  isn't  much,  because  you  always  clear  up  as  you 
go  along,"  said  Dora. 

"  There's  no  need  of  leaving  every  thing  round,  the 
way  some  folks  do.  Dolly,  I  do  wish  you'd  set  up  your 
chair  when  you've  done  with  it ;  and  here's  a  mess  of 
stuff"  — 

"  Oh,  don't  throw  it  away,  Kitty  !  It's  my  moss  ;  and 
I'm  going  to  make  the  pussies  a  house  of  stones,  and  have 
it  grow  all  over  moss.  Dora  said  I  might  —  Oh,  oh  ! 
you're  real  naughty  and  ugly  now,  Kitty  Windsor ;  and  I 
shu'u't  love  you,  and  Argus  shall  bite  you"  — 

But  Kitty,  with  a  contemptuous  laugh,  was  already  walk- 


276  KITTY   IN   THE   WOODS. 

ing  away,  taking  especial  pains  to  tread  upon  the  bits  of 
bright  moss  as  they  lay  scattered  along  the  path. 

"  Dora,  see  !  I  do  hate  —  no,  I  dislike  —  Kitty,  just  as 
hard  as  I  can  ;  and  I  can't  get  any  more  pretty  moss  "  — 

The  child  was  crying  passionately ;  and  Dora  left  every 
thing  to  take  her  in  her  arms,  and  soothe  and  quiet  her. 

u  Aunt  Kitty  is  very  neat  and  nice,  little  Sunshine  ;  and 
the  moss  has  earth  clinging  to  it  that  might  drop  on  the 
floor ;  and,  besides, *it  takes  up  room,  and  we  have  so  little, 
—  hardly  more  than  a  mouse  has  in  its  nest.  Oh  !  I  never 
told  you  how  I  found  a  whole  nest  of  mice  in  one  of  my 
slippers  once,  —  six  little  tiny  fellows,  no  bigger  than  your 
thumb  ;  and  every  one  with  two  little  black,  beady  eyes, 
and  a  funny  little  tail." 

"  When  was  it?  When  you  was  a  little  teenty  girl,  like 
me  ?  And  was  you  afraid  of  the  big  mouse  ?  What  did 
you  do  with  them  ?  " 

"  Come,  wipe  the  teaspoons,  and  I  will  tell  you,"  said 
Dora,  going  back  to  her  work  ;  and,  the  Apsi!  cloud  having 
passed,  the  Sunshine  was  as  bright  as  ever. 

Karl,  behind  his  newspaper,  heard,  saw,  and  understood 
the  whole  ;  and  his  mental  comment  might  have  seemed  to 


KITTY   IN   THE    WOODS.  277 

some  bearers  but  little  connected  with  the  scene  that  called 
it  forth.  It  was  simply,  — 

4 ;  Confound  old  Brown  !  " 

Kitty,  meantime,  had  walked  rapidly  towards  the  wood  ; 
but  though  the  sunset-clouds  were  gorgeous,  the  lights  and 
shadows  of  the  forest  rare  and  shifting,  and  the  birds  jubi 
lant  in  their  evening  song,  she  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing, 
knew  nothing,  except  the  tumult  in  her  own  heart. 

Far  in  the  recesses  of  the  wood,  she  paused,  and  throwing 
herself  upon  the  ground,  her  face  hidden  upon  her  arms,  gave 
way  to  a  paroxysm  of  tears.  Then,  rising  to  her  feet  as 
suddenly,  she  paced  up  and  down,  her  hands  clinched  before 
her,  her  black  brows  knit,  and  her  mouth  hard  and  sullen. 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  muttered  she  :  "  it's  the  way  I  was  made, 
and  the  way  I  shall  die,  I  expect.  I  know  I'm  mean  and 
hateful,  and  not  half  as  good  as  she  ;  but —  Oh  !  it's  too 
bad,  too  bad  !  —  it's  cruel,  and  I  can't  bear  it !  Mother  loved 
me,  —  yes,  she  loved  me  best  of  every  thing  ;  and  that  hateful 
Pic  killed  her  :  whose  fault  was  that  but  Dora's  ?  Then  Charlie 
—  what  does  he  care  for  me  beside  her?  and,  and —  Well, 
perhaps  Mr.  Brown  never  would  have  noticed  me  at  any 
rate  ;  but,  while  she's  round,  he  has  no  eyes  for  any  one  else. 
Even  the  child,  and  the  cats,  and  the  dog,  and  the  horses, 


278  KITTY    IN   THE    WOODS. 

every  living  thing,  loves  her  better  than  me  ;  ar  d  now  he's 
coming  to  court  her  right  before  my  eyes  !  I  wish  I  was 
dead  !  I  wish  I'd  never  been  born  !  I'm  not  fit  to  live  ! " 

She  then  threw  herself  again  upon  the  ground,  pressing  her 
burning  forehead  against  the  cool  moss,  and  grasping  handfuls 
of  the  leaves  rustling  about  her,  while  she  wailed  again  and 
again,  — 

"  I'm  not  fit  to  live,  —  not  fit  to  live  !  Oh,  I  wish  I  was 
dead  this  minute  !  O  God  !  if  you  love  me  any  better  than 
the  rest,  let  me  die,  let  me  die  this  minute  ;  for  I  am  not  fit  to 
live." 

"  Then  you  cannot  be  fit  to  die,  my  child,"  said  a  voice 
above  her  ;  and,  starting  up,  Kitty  found  herself  confronted  by 
a  tall,  fine-looking  man,  of  about  thirty  years  of  age  ;  his  hand 
some  face  just  now  wearing  an  expression  of  sorrowful  stern 
ness  as  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  Kitty's,  which  fell  before  them. 

"  Mr.  Brown  !  "  stammered  she. 

u  Yes,  Kitty :  my  journey  has  been  more  rapid  than  1 
could  have  expected ;  and  I  arrived  at  Greenfield  about  an 
hour  ago.  Finding  you  so  near,  I  took  a  horse,  and  came  out 
here  to-night.  You  did  not  hear  me  approach  ;  and,  when  I 
saw  you  through  the  trees,  I  dismounted,  and  came  to  ask 
you  what  was  the  matter.  I  heard  only  your  last  words, 


KITTY   IN   THE    WOODS.  279 

and  perhaps  I  should  not  have  noticed  them  ;  yet,  as  a 
friend  of  you  and  yours,  I  will  say  again,  Kitty,  he  who  is 
not  fit  to  live  should  feel  himself  most  unfit  to  die,  which  is 
but  to  live  with  all  the  passions  that  made  life  unendurable 
made  ours  forever." 

a  Do  you  think  so?  If  I  should  die  now,  should  I  feel 
just  as  badly  when  I  came  to  in  the  other  world  ?  "  asked 
Kitty  with  a  startled  look. 

Mr.  Brown  smiled,  as  he  answered,  — 

"  I  cannot  think,  Kitty,  that  your  remorse  or  your  sorrows 
can  be  as  deep  as  you  fancy.  Perhaps  they  are  only  trifling 
vexations  connected  with  outside  matters,  not  rising  from 
real  wrong  within.  But  you  won't  want  to  hear  a  sermon 
before  I  even  reach  the  house  :  so  come  and  show  me  the  way 
there,  and  tell  me  how  you  all  are." 

"  Dora  is  very  well,"  said  Kitty,  so  crisply,  that  Mr.  Brown 
glanced  at  her  sharply,  and  walked  on  in  silence.  Presently 
he  said,  — 

"  You  must  not  think,  Kitty,  that  I  mean  to  treat  your 
troubles  lightly,  whatever  they  may  be.  Think  about  them 
a  little  longer  by  yourself;  and  in  a  day  or  two,  if  they  still 
seem  as  unendurable,  perhaps  it  will  relieve  you  to  talk  to 


KITTY   IN   THE    WOODS. 

me  as  plainly  as  you  choose.  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  help 
you  if  I  can,  Kitty  ;  very  glad  and  willing.  You  must  look 
upon  me  as  another  brother." 

"  Or  '.i  cousin,  maybe,  sir  ?  "  suggested  Kitty,  turning  away 
her  head. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

THE  FOX  UNDER  THE  ROBE. 

DORA  sitting  upon  the  doorstep,  with  Sunshine  nestled 
close  beside  her,  was  quite  astonished  to  see  Mr  Brown 
appearing  from  the  forest  with  Kitty,  as  his  letter  had  named 
no  day  for  his  arrival ;  and  she  had  not  expected  him  so 
soon. 

She  went  to  meet  him,  however,  with  a  greeting  of  unaf 
fected  cordiality ;  and  as,  while  holding  out  her  hand,  she 
raised  to  his  her  clear  and  steadfast  eyes,  the  young  man's 
somewhat  serious  face  lighted  with  a  sudden,  happy  glow, 
making  it  so  handsome,  that  Kitty,  eagerly  watching  the 
meeting,  turned  white  to  the  very  lips,  and  hastily  passed 
on  toward  the  house. 

44  Come,  Dolce,"  said  she,  "  I  will  put  you  to  bed.  Dora's 
lover  has  come  to  see  her,  and  she  won't  have  a  look  for 
either  of  us  to-night." 

"  I  love  you,  Kitty ;  and  I  don't  mind  if  you  did  throw 
away  my  moss.  I  won't  bring  any  more  into  the  house." 

281 


282  THE  FOX  UNDER  THE  ROBE. 

But  Sunshine,  well  disposed  as,  through  Dora's  careful 
suggestions,  she  had  become  toward  Kitty,  was  rather 
alarmed  than  pleased  at  the  sudden  embrace  in  which  she 
found  herself  wrapped,  and  the  eager  kisses,  among  which 
Kitty  whispered,  — 

"  0  Dolce  !  do  you,  do  you  love  poor  Kitty  a  little  ?  You're 
an  angel,  and  I'm  real  sorry  about  the  moss  ;  but  you  can  get 
some  more,  can't  you?  I'll  help  you  hunt  for  it  to-morrow 
while  they're  gone  to  walk  or  ride.  They'll  be  off  all  day  ; 
but  we  won't  mind.  Do  you  love  me,  Dolly  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do,  Kitty ;  and  I  know  a  place  where  the  moss 
is  so  thick,  you  can't  step  unless  you  put  your  foot  on  it. 
But  I  didn't,  'cause  "  — 

"  'Cause  what,  you  darling?" 

"  'Cause  the  little  creatures  that  live  in  the  woods  come 
and  dance  there  nights,  and  they  wouldn't  like  it  if  it  was 
dirty." 

"What  creatures?  The  woodchucks ? " 
"  Why,  no,  Aunt  Kitty  !  the  little  girls  and  boys,  or  some 
thing.  They  whisper  way  off  among  the  trees,  and  dance 
too,  just  when  the  sun  sets.  Didn't  you  ever  see  them  skip 
ping  in  and  out  among  the  trees  just  as  far  off  as  you  could 
look?" 


THE  FOX  UNDER  THE  ROBE.  283 

"  Those  are  shadows,  Dolly  ;  and  the  whispering  in  the 
trees  is  the  wind.  You  mustn't  have  so  many  fancies, 
child,  or  by  and  by  you'll  get  cracked." 

"  Ther  ;>'ou  can  boil  me  in  milk,  just  as  you  did  the  tea 
cup,"  murmured  Sunshine,  half  asleep. 

Kitty  made  no  answer,  but,  smoothing  the  sheet  over  the 
little  girl,  went  to  seat  herself  at  the  open  window. 

Far  off  upon  the  prairie  she  heard  the  night-winds  come 
and  go,  —  now  moaning  like  some  vast  spirit  wandering 
disquieted,  now  falling  soft  and  low  as  the  breath  of  the 
sleeping  earth  ;  and  the  vague  voice  and  the  cool  touch 
seemed  to  quiet  the  fever  of  the  young  girl's  heart,  although 
she  knew  not  how  or  why. 

Above,  in  the  purple  skies,  stood  all  the  host  of  heaven, 
looking  down  with  solemn  benediction  upon  the  earth,  lying 
peaceful  and  loving  beneath  their  gaze  ;  and  even  Kitty  — 
poor,  lonely,  heartsick  Kitty  —  lifted  her  hot,  tearful  face 
toward  them,  and  felt  the  holy  calm  descend  upon  her 
aching  heart. 

Falling  upon  her  knees,  she  raised  her  arms  yearningly 
toward  heaven ;  and  her  whole  soul  struggled  upward  in 
the  cry,  — — 

"  Oh,  I  wish  I  could,  I  wish  I  could,  be  good  !     0  God ! 


284  THE  FOX  UNDER  THE  ROBE. 

make  me  good  enough  to  die  and  go  to  wheie  my  mother 
is!" 

A  light  step  upon  the  stair,  a  gentle  hand  upon  the  latch, 
and  strange  Kitty,  perverse  even  among  her  best  impulses, 
started  up,  and  stood  cold  and  silent  in  the  darkness. 

"  Kitty  !  "  said  Dora's  voice  softly. 

«  Well.     I'm  here." 

u  Won't  you  come  down  now  ?  Sunshine  is  asleep  ;  isn't 
she?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  won't  you  come?" 

"  By  and  by  :  I've  got  to  see  to  the  beds.  Where  is  Mr. 
Brown  going  to  sleep  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  might  give  him  your  room,  and  come  in 
here." 

"  Indeed  I  sha'ri't !  "  replied  Kitty  in  a  strange  voice. 
"  He  is  no  company  of  mine  ;  and  I  don't  want  him  even  to 
look  into  my  room.  I'd  never  sleep  there  again  if  he  did 
once  !  " 

"  Well,  then,  we  can  make  a  bed  fur  Karl  on  the  floor, 
and  Mr.  Brown  can  have  his  bed,"  said  Dora  quietly,  see 
ing  nothing  deeper  in  Kitty's  refusal  than  a  little  impulse 
of  perversity. 


THE  FOX  UNDER  THE  ROBE.  285 

Kitty  made  no  reply  ;  and  Dora,  groping  her  way  toward 
where  she  stood,  put  an  arm  about  her  waist,  saying,  — 

"  Come,  Kitty,  come  down  with  me.  You're  tired,  I 
know  ;  and  it  is  too  bad  you  have  so  much  to  do.  To-mor 
row  I  will  stay  at  home  and  help  you.  Karl  can  take  a 
holiday,  and  show  Mr.  Brown  over  the  farm." 

"  What  nonsense  !  I  don't  do  any  thing  to  hurt ;  and  it 
would  be  pretty  well  for  you  to  send  Mr.  Brown  off  with 
Karl,  when  he  came  here  on  purpose  to  see  you." 

"  Oh,  no.  he  didn't !  He  came  to  see  us  all ;  and  he 
asked  where  you  were  just  now,  when  we  came  in." 

"  And  that  was  why  you  came  to  look  for  me ;  wasn't 
it?"  asked  Kitty  suspiciously. 

"  Not  wholly.  I  had  been  thinking  of  it  for  some  min 
utes." 

"But  couldn't  bear  to  leave  long  enough,"  suggested 
Kitty  ;  adding,  however,  "  Well,  I'll  come.  I  suppose  it  is 
no  more  than  polite,  as  long  as  he's  company." 

"  Of  course  it  isn't ;  and  you  know  Mr.  Brown  is  very 
ceremonious,"  said  Dora,  so  archly,  that  Kitty  paused  in 
smoothing  her  hair  to  say,  — 

"  Now,  if  you're  going  to  make  fun  of  me,  Dora  "  — 

"  Oh,  I'm  not !  —  not  a  .bit  of  it.  There,  now,  you're  nice 
enough  for  any  tiling." 


286  THE  FOX  UNDER  THE  ROBE. 

lu  the  kitchen,  besides  Mr.  Brown  and  Karl,  the  girls 
found  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ross  ;  Mehitable  demurely  seated  in  a 
corner,  and  knitting  a  long  woollen  stocking ;  while  Seth, 
under  the  skilful  management  of  Mr.  Brown,  was  giving 
quite  an  interesting  description  of  life  in  a  Maine  logging- 
camp. 

u  Do  you  ever  have  any  trouble  from  wild  beasts  in  that 
region  ?  "  asked  the  chaplain. 

"  Waal,  some.  There's  lots  of  b'ar  about  by  spells  ;  and 
once't  in  a  while  a  painter  or  a  wild-cat — wolverines,  some 
calls  'em  out  here." 

"  Did  you  ever  meet  one  yourself?" 

"Which  on  'em?" 

"  Either.     Bears,  for  instance." 

"  Yes,  sir.  I've  took  b'ar  ever  since  I  wor  old  enough 
to  set  a  trap." 

u  Did  you  ever  have  any  trouble  with  one?  " 

"  Waal,  I  don'  know  as  I  did.  They  was  mostly  pooty 
'commodatin',"  said  Seth,  drawing  the  back  of  his  brown 
hand  across  his  mouth  to  hide  a  self-complacent  grin  at 
the  recollection  of  his  own  exploits. 

"  Tell  Mr.  Brown  'bout  the  painter  and  Uncle  'Siah's 
Harnah,"  suggested  Mehitable  in  a  low  voice  ;  and  as  Seth 


THE  FOX  UNDER  THE  ROBE.  287 

only  stirred  in  his  chair,  and  looked  rather  reprovingly  at 
his  wife,  the  guest  added,  — 

u  Yes,  Mr.  Ross,  tell  us  that,  by  all  means." 
"  Ho  !  'twa'n't  much  of  a  story  ;  only  the  woman  thinks 
consid'able  about  it,  'cause  it  wor  a  cousin  of  oura  that  wor 
took  off." 

"Indeed!  and  what  were  the  circumstances?"  politely 
insisted  Mr.  Brown.  So  Seth,  tilting  his  chair  upon  its 
hind-legs,  and  crossing  his  own,  stuck  his  chin  into  the  air, 
fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  ceiling,  and  began,  in  the  inimitable 
nasal  whining  voice  of  a  Down-East  Yankee,  'the  story 
narrated  in  the  following  chapter. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

THE    PAINTER   AND    UNCLE    'SIAIl's    HARNAH. 

"  WHEN  father  settled  up  uigh  the  head-waters  of  the 
Peuobscot,  folks  said  we'd  have  to  be  mighty  car' fill,  or 
some  o'  the  young  ones  would  tumble  over  the  jumpiug-off- 
place,  we'd  got  so  nigh.  But  Uncle  'Siah  went  right  along, 
and  took  up  land  furder  on,  whar  there  wa'n't  nothing  but 
hemlock-trees  and  chipmunks  for  company,  and  no  passing 
to  keep  the  women-folks  running  to  the  winders.  Thai- 
was  a  good  road  cut  through  the  woods,  and  there  was  the 
river  run  within  a  stone's-throw  of  both  houses  :  so,  one 
way  and  another,  we  got  back'ards  and  for'ards  consid'able 
often,  'specially  when  the  young  folks  begun  to  grow  up. 

u  Harnah  wor  Uncle  'Siah's  second  gal,  and  just  as  pooty 
as  a  picter.  She  looked  suthin'  like  Dolcy,  Dora's  little 
adopted  darter,  you  know :  but  she  wor  alluz  a-larfin',  and 
gitting  off  her  jokes  ;  and  had  a  sort  of  a  wicked  look  by 
spells,  enough  to  make  a  feller's  flesh  creep  on  his  bones." 

u  Lor',  that's  enough  o'  Harnah  !     She  wa'n't  so  drefiul 

288 


THE    PAINTER    AND    UNCLE    'SIAll'S    11AKNA1I.  '2$(J 

different  from  otlier  folks.  Git  along  to  the  story  part 
on't,"  interrupted  Mehitable,  clicking  her  knitting-needles 
energetically. 

Seth  looked  at  her  a  little  indignantly  for  a  moment,  and 
then  burst  into  a  loud  laugh,  — 

tu  Lor'  !  I'd  clear  forgot  how  it  used  ter  spite  Hit  to  hear 
me  praise  up  Haruah.  You  see,  sir,  Mehitabul  wor  a  sort 
o'  cousin  o'  my  mother's,  and  so  come  to  live  long  of  us 
when  lier  father  died  :  but  she  never  cottoned  to  Harnah 
very  strong  when  she  see  how  well  I  liked  her  ;  though,  now 
she's  got  me  for  her  own  man,  I'd  think"  — 

"But  the  panther,  Mr.  Ross,"  interposed  Dora,  who 
saw,  with  womanly  sympathy,  the  flush  of  mortification 
upon  Mchitable's  face  :  u  do  tell  us  about  the  panther." 

"  Yes  :  I  b'lieve  my  idees  was  kind  o'  wandering  from  the 
pint ;  but  that's  nothing  strange,  if  you  kuowed  what  an 
out-an-outer  that  gal  was.  Well,  well,  'tain't  no  use  a-crying 
over  spilt  milk,  and  by-gones  may  as  well  be  stay-gones. 

u  Sam  Hedge,  he  was  my  uncle's  hired  man,  and  a 
plaguy  smart  feller  too ;  good-looking,  merry  as  a  grig, 
a  live  Yankee  for  faculty,  and  pretty  forehanded  too,  though 
he  hadn't  set  up  for  himself  then.  I  more  than  suspicioned 
he'd  ruther  live  with  Uncle  'Siah,  and  see  Haruah  from 
19 


290  THE   PAINTER   AND    UNCLE   'SIAIl'S    HAllNAlI. 

morning  to  night,  than  go  off  and  take  up  laud  for  himself; 
or  maybe  ho  didn't  feel  as  if  he'd  the  peth  to  take  right 
hold  of  new  land  all  alone.  Anyway,  there  he  wor,  and 
there  he  stuck,  right  squar  in  my  way,  do  as  much  as  J 
might  to  git  him  out  on't. 

k'  Of  course,  you  onderstand  about  being  in  my  v.-ay 
means  all  along  o'  Harriah.  We  was  both  sweet  on  her, 
and  no  mistake  ;  though  nary  one  on  us,  nor,  I  believe,  the 
gal  herself,  could  ha'  told  which  one  she  favored. 

"  Waal,  to  skip  over  all  the  rest  (though  there's  the  stuff 
for  half  a  dozen  stories  in  it),  I'll  come  to  one  night  when 
I'd  been  up  to  Uncle  'Siah's,  and  Harnali  and  Sam  had 
come  down  to  the  crick  to  see  me  off;  for  I'd  come  in  my 
boat.  I  felt  kind  o'  savage  ;  for  Harnah  had  been  mighty 
pooty  with  me  all  that  evening ;  and  I  knew  Sam  had  come 
down  to  the  boat  a  purpose  to  go  back  to  the  house  with 
her,  and,  'fore  they  was  half-way,  she'd  come  right  round, 
and  be  just  as  clever  to  him  as  she'd  been  before  to 
me." 

44  If  you  knew  your  cousin  to  be  such  a  terrible  little 
flirt  as  that,  I  shouldn't  think  you  would  have  cared  so 
much  about  her,  Seth,"  suggested  Karl,  laughing. 

"  No   more  shouldn't  I,  cap'u,"   replied    Seth    ruefully. 


THE    PAINTER   AND    UNCLE    'SIAH'S    HARNAH.  291 

"  But  somehow  I  couldu't  help  it.  I'd  think  it  over  eights, 
and  say  to  myself,  '  You  darned  fool !  don't  you  see  the 
gal's  a-playing  one  of  you  off  agin  t'other,  and  mayhe 
don't  care  a  pin  for  neither?  Get  shet  of  her  once  for  all, 
and  be  a  man  ;  can't  ye  ?  '  And  then  I'd  find  I  couldn't ;  and 
so  it  went  till  we  come  to  that  night,  and  stood  there  on  the 
edge  of  the  crick,  —  two  on  us  ready  to  clinch  and  fight  till 
one  cried  enough,  and  t'other  a-laughing  at  us  both. 

"  So,  all  to  once,  Ilarnah  says,  says  she,  — 

"  '  I  do  believe  them  harebells  are  bLowed  out  by  this 
time.  Ain't  they,  boys?' 

u '  You  and  I'll  go  to-morrow  and  see,  anyway/  says 
Sam,  speaking  up  quick,  'fore  I  got  the  chance, 

"  lPm  a-going  to  see  ;  and,  if  Harnah'll  come  too,  all  the 
better,'  says  I,  as  pleasant  as  a  bear  with  a  sore  head. 

u  '  Two's  company,  and  three's  a  crowd  ;  so  you'd  better 
stop  to  home,  Seth,'  says  Sam. 

u  l  Two's  company,  that's  Harnah  and  me  ;  and  three's  a 
crowd,  that's  you  :  so,  ef  you  don't  like  crowding  nor  beiog 
crowded,  you'd  better  stop  to  home  yourself,'  says  I. 

" '  I  believe  I  spoke  first,  Seth  Ross,'  says  Sam,  pretty 
savage  at  last. 

That  don't  make  no  difference,  as  I  know  on.    Harnah 


vcr 

u  i 


i'92  THE    PAINTER    VND    UNCLE    'SIAIl's    IIARNAH. 

was  my  cousin  long  afore  you  was  her  father's  hired  man  ; 
and  that  puts  me  in  mind  you  hain't  asked  leave  yet. 
Maybe  the  old  man  won't  let  you  go.  What  you  going 'to 
do  then?'  asked  I,  dreadful  kind  of  sneering;  for  I  felt 
mad. 

"  Sam  he  didn't  say  nothing ;  but  he  drew  back,  and 
doubled  up  his  fists.  I  caught  the  glint  of  his  eye  in  the 
moonlight,  and  my  darnder  riz. 

"  '  Come  on,'  says  I ;  '  I'm  ready  for  you  ;  and  we'll  fight 
it  out  like  men.  The  feller  that's  licked  shall  give  up  once 
for  all.' 

"But  'fore   Sam  could  speak,  or  I  could   hit  out  as  I 

% 
wanted  ter,  Ilarnah  come  right  in  between  us.     I  swow  ef 

that  gal  didn't  look  harnsome  !  Her  eyes  was  wide  open, 
and  shining  just  like  blue  steel  in  the  moonlight.  Her 
cheeks  and  lips  was  white  ;  and  seemed  to  me  the  very  curls 
of  her  hair  shot  out  sparks,  she  was  so  mad. 

'"You'd  better  stop  while  there's  time,'  says  she,  still 
and  cold.  '  If  you  strike  one  another,  or  if  you  ever  fight, 
and  I  the  cause,  I  swear  to  God  I  never  will  speak  a  civil 
word  to  either  one  of  you  again  as  long  as  I  live.  So  now 
you  know. 

"  c  As  for  the  harebells,  you  sha'n't  neither  one  of  you  go 


THE    PAINTER    AND    UNCLE    'SIAH'S    HARNAH.  293 

for  'em.  Ef  I  want  harebells,  there's  them  that  can  get 
'em  for  me,  and  not  make  so  much  fuss  about  it  neither.' 

"  She  turned,  and  stepped  off  toward  the  house  as  if  she'd 
got  steel  springs  in  the  soles  of  her  feet. 

"  Sam  and  I  eyed  each  other.  It  seemed  as  if  Harnah 
felt  that  look  ;  for  she  turned  all  of  a  sudden,  and  come 
back. 

"  '  Sam,'  says  she,  p'inting  up  to  the  house,  '  go  home  ; 
and  don't  you  speak  to  me  again  to-night.  Seth,  get  into 
your  boat,  and  push  her  off.  You  needn't  come  up  to-mor 
row  night.' 

"  We  sort  o'  looked  at  one  another  and  at  her,  and  then 
meeched  off  the  way  she  told  us,  for  all  the  world  like  two 
dogs  that's  got  a  licking,  and  been  sent  home  'fore  the  hunt 
was  done^ 

u  I  didn't  sleep  a  great  deal  that  night.  Fact  is,  I  was 
turning  over  in  my  own  mind  what  Harnah  had  said  about 
them  as  would  git  harebells  for  her,  and  not  make  so  much 
fuss  about  it  neither. 

"  '  I  swow,'  says  I,  '  I'd  like  to  clinch  that  feller,  whoever 
he  may  be,  and  not  have  Harnah  nigh  enough  to  interfere.' 
Then  I  rec'lected  a  Cap'u  Harris,  a  British  officer,  that 
come  down  from  Canady  the  summer  before,  hunting  and 


204  THE    PAINTER    AND    UNCLE    'siAIl'S    IIARNAII. 

fishing,  and  had  stopped  a  week  or  more  at  Uncle  'Siali's, 
mostly  for  the  sake  of  seeing  Harnah,  as  I  thought  then, 
and  do  now.  Ever  since,  when  Harnah  didn't  know  how 
else  to  plague  Sam  and  me,  she'd  set  up  to  talk  about  '  real 
gentlemen,'  and  '  folks  that  knowed  manners,'  and  all  sech 
stuff.  Then  she'd  pretend  she'd  got  a  letter  from  Cap'n 
Harris,  and  that  he  was  coming  agin,  and  all  that.  So 
now  I  got  it  in  my  head  that  Cap'n  Harris  was  coming, 
and  that  she  meant  he'd  get  the  harebells. 

"'But  I'll  bet  he  won't,  without  a  fight,  anyway,'  says 
I,  clinching  up  my  fist ;  and  then  I  went  to  sleep  quite 
coraf  'table. 

"  Now,  there  wa'n't  but  one  place,  as  I  knew  of,  where 
harebells  was  to  be  found  ;  and  Harnah  had  showed  me 
that  place  herself  the  summer  afore,  and  I  had  picked  the 
flowers  for  her.  So  I  made  up  my  mind  to  go  next  day 
and  see  if  they  was  in  blow  ;  and,  if  they  was,  to  get  a 
bunch  anyway,  and  take  the  resk  of  giving  'em  to  Haruah 
arterwards. 

"  I  couldn't  git  away  in  the  morning  nohow  ;  for  Hitly 
seemed  to  know  it  was  something  about  Harnah  that  was 
calling  me,  and  contrived  all  sorts  of  business  to  keep  me 
to  hum  :  but,  after  dinner,  I  jist  took  my  hat,  and  cleared 


THE    PAINTER   AND    UNCLE    'SIAIl'S    IIARNAIT.  205 

out  afore  she  knowed  it,  and,  by  the  time  she  missed  me, 
\vas  half  a  mile  up  the  river. 

41  'Twas  a  pooty  day  as  ever  you  see  ;  and  as  I  rowed 
along,  listening  to  the  water  running  by  the  boat,  and  the 
wind  rustling  in  the  trees,  I  began  to  feel  real  sort  of  good, 
and  didn't  care  half  so  much  about  Sam  or  the  British  cap'n 
as  I  did  when  I  started.  When  I  come  to  the  landing  at 
Uncle  'Siah's,  I  never  stopped,  though  I  looked  with  all  my 
eyes  for  any  signs  of  Ilarnah  ;  but  couldn't  see  no  one  but 
Sam  going  out  to  the  cornfield,  with  a  hoe  on  his  shoulder. 

u  '  Good  for  you,  Sam/  says  I  to  myself.  4  Hard  work's 
dreadful  wholesome  for  love-sickness.'  So  I  rowed  along  as 
merry  as  a  cricket,  and  pretty  soon  tied  up  my  boat,  and 
struck  off  into  the  woods.  It  was  consid'able  of  a  walk  ;  and 
I  strolled  along  easy  till  I  came  to  the  place  whar  the  hare 
bells  growed,  'bout  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  river.  This 
was  a  high  clift,  covered  with  brush  and  trees  on  one  side, 
and  on  the  other  falling  sheer  down  to  a  little  deep  valley, 
with  another  clift  rising  opposite.  These  clifts  joined  each 
other  at  the  two  ends  of  the  valley :  so  there  was  no  getting 
into  it  anyway  but  down  the  faces  of  'em,  and  that  was  as 
much  as  a  man's  neck  was  worth  ;  but,  fur's  I  know,  no  man 
had  ever  wanted  to,  nor  ever  tried  to,  till  that  day. 


;;  The  harebells  growed  on  the  very  edge  of  the  fu.st  cliir, 
and  a  little  way  down  the  face  of  it,  and  looked  mighty 
pooty  a-floating  in  the  wind.  Harnah,  who  was  kind  of 
romantic,  said  they  was  the  plume  in  the  old  clift's  hat ;  and 
she  called  the  place  the  Lovers'  Rock,  'case,  she  said,  the 
two  clifts  seemed  taking  hold  of  hands,  and  jist  going  to 
kiss.'* 

"  That  sounds  like  Harnah,  anyway,"  muttered  Mehita- 
ble  contemptuously. 

"  Yes,  it's  more  uv  an  idee  than  you'd  'a  been  likely  to 
git  off,  ain't  it,  Hit?"  asked  Seth  with  a  malicious  grin,  and 
winking  at  the  company. 

Hut  Mehitable  preserving  a  prudent  silence,  and  only 
showing  her  feelings  by  an  accelerated  movement  of  her 
knitting-needles,  her  husband  elevated  his  eyes  again  to 
the  ceiling,  recrossed  his  legs,  and  continued  :  — 

"  I  scrambled  up  the  back  of  the  clift  easy  enough  ;  and, 
sure  enough,  there  was  the  posies,  all  in  blow,  and  tossing  their 
heads  at  me  as  if  they  knowed  how  pooty  they  was,  and 
dared  me  not  to  say  so.  Somehow  they  made  me  think  of 
Human  ;  and  I  spoke  right  out,  — 

"  '  Yes,  I  know  you  be  ;  and  I  hain't  never  said  you 
ain't  as  pooty  a  cretur  as  walks  the  airth :  but  I  wish  you 
wa'n't  so  awful  changeable.' 


THE    PAINTER    AND    UNCLE    'STAIl's    IIARNAII.  297 

•'  Then  I  laffed  right  out,  to  think  I  was  talking  to  a  lot 
of  flowers  same  as  if  they  was  a  gal ;  and,  when  I  done 
laffin',  I  went  down  on  my  knees,  and  begun  to  pick  'em. 
But  I  hidn't  more  than  got  the  first  fist-ful  whon  I  heerd  a 
groan,  a  sort  uv  a  faint  holler  groan,  that  sounded  as  if  it 
come  right  out  uv  the  ground  underneath  me.  I  dropped 
the  flowers,  and  riz  right  up  on  eend.  My  ha'r  riz  too  ;  for 
I  was  scaart,  I  tell  you.  '  But/  thinks  I,  '  'twon't  do  to  run 
away  the  fust  lick  : '  so  I  held  on,  and  pooty  soon  it  come 
agin.  This  time  I  listened  sharp,  and  had  my  wits  about 
me  ;  so  that,  when  it  wor  through,  I  clim'  right  up  to  the  top 
uv  the  ledge,  and  looked  down  into  the  valley,  holleriu',  — 

u  '  Who  be  you?     Is  any  one  thai1?' 

"  A  voice  answered,  faint  and  weak  ;  but  what  it  said,  or 
whar  it  was,  I  couldn't  for  the  life  of  me  tell. 

"  So  I  hollered  agin,  — 

"'Whar  be  you,  stranger?  Holler  as  loud  as  you 
kin!1 

"  The  voice  answered  back  ;  and  I  heerd  my  own  name, 
and,  as  I  thought,  in  a  voice  that  turned  me  as  sick  and 
weak  as  a  gal. 

u  It  was  Harnah's  voice  ;  and  my  first  idee  was  that  she 
wor  dead,  and  wor  ha'nting  me. 

u  '  TTarnah  ! '  savs  I,  soft  and  low,  'is  it  you?' 


298  THE    PAINTER    AND    UNCLE    'SlAll's    1IAUNAH. 

"There  wa'n't  no  answer,  but  another  groan,  a;ul  along 
of  it  a  curious  kind  of  noise,  like  a  lot  of  cats  all  growling 
together.  I  knowed  that  noise  ;  and,  afore  it  eended,  I 
knovved  whar  it  come  from.  And,  all  to  once,  the  hull 
siory  come  to  me:  Harnah  was  down  thar  in  a  paint 
er's  den  ;  and  the  kittens  was  a-growling  round  her. 
Th P.  old  ones  must  be  away,  or  one  of  'em  would  'a  been  out 
to  see  to  me  afore  this. 

"  I  hadn't  the  fust  thing  in  the  way  of  a  we'pon  with  me  ; 
but  there  was  plenty  of  stones  down  in  the  hollow,  and  I  cut 
a  good  oak-sapling  with  my  jack-knife.  Then  I  sot  myself 
to  scramble  down  the  face  of  the  clift ;  and,  I  tell  you,  I  sweat 
before  I  got  to  the  bottom.  Ef  it  hadn't  been  for  Harnah,  I 
couldn't  'a  done  it;  but,  somehow  or  'nother,  I  reached  the 
bottom,  and  looked  about  me.  Sure  enough,  close  to  my 
feet  was  the  mouth  of  a  cave,  running  right  in  under  the 
ledge,  though  not  more  than  three  foot  high.  I  knelt  down 
and  peeked  in,  calling,  — 

"  '  Harnah,  be  you  thar?  ' 

"  '  Seth,  is  it  you? '  asked  a  voice  very  faint. 

"  '  Yes,  my  dear,  it  is,'  says  I,  l  arid  bound  to  got  you 
out  uv  this  scrape  about  the  quickest.  What's  a-keepiug 
you  in  there? ' 


"  '  My  leg  is  broke,  and  the  horrid  creature  is  lying  on 
my  feet  ! '  says  Harnah. 

"  I  didn't  wait  for  no  more  questions,  but  crawled  inter  the 
hole.  A  dozen  feet  from  the  mouth,  I  come  to  a  snarl  of  fur, 
and  glary  eyes,  and  snapping  teeth,  and  savage  growls,  that 
I  finally  made  out  to  be  a  couple  of  painter-kittens,  not 
niore'n  a  few  days  old,  but  savage  enough  for  a  hundred. 
They  was  snuggled  close  up  to  something :  what  it  was  I 
couldn't  at  fust  make  out  in  the  darkness  ;  but  putty  soon 
I  sec  that  it  was  a  full-grown  painter,  lying  stretched  out  at 
length.  I  started  back,  with  all  the  blood  in  me  pricking  at 
my  fingers'  ends  with  the  scare  I'd  got ;  but  Harnah' s  voice 
from  beyond  says,  — 

"  '  Don't  be  frightened  at  the  old  panther.  She's  dead. 
They  fought,  and  one  ran  away  ;  and  this  one  is  dead.' 

"  '  And  is  she  a-lying  on  your  feet,  did  you  say?  It's  so 
dark  in  here,  I  can't  see  the  fust  thing,'  says  I,  feeling  round 
for  the  critter's  head,  and  gitting  my  paws  tore  by  the  young 
ones,  who,  I  must  say  for  'em,  was  mighty  handy  with  their 
claws  for  their  age.  So  says  I,  — 

"  '  Well,  fust  thing,  I'll  get  red  o'  these  little  devils  ;  and 
then  I'll  drag  out  the  karkiss,  and  see  to  you,  my  poor  gal.' 

"  So  I  clinched  the  fust  one  by  the  throat,  and,  when  he 


000  THE    PAINTER    AND    UNCLE    'SIAIl's    IIARNAH. 

hung  like  a  rag,  pitched  him  out,  and  grappled  t'other  ;  but 
he  was  a  case,  I  tell  you.  Fight! — you'd  ought  ter  have 
seen  him!  —  and  scratch  and  bite,  and  spit  and  yowl,  till 
the  whole  woods  rung  with  his  uproar.  I  mastered  him 
finally ;  but  he'd  done  his  work,  and  come  nigh  beating 
me  even  arter  he  was  dead,  as  ye  shall  hear. 

u  When  the  kittens  was  out  of  the  way,  I  clinched  the  kar- 
kiss  uv  the  old  painter,  and  dragged  it  to'rst  the  mouth  uv 
the  cave.  It  wor  hard  work  ;  and,  when  I'd  got  part  way, 

1  left  it  lying,  and  squeezed  by  (for  it  most  filled   up   the 
passage),  and  went  to  see  how  bad  Harnah  might  be  hurt; 
for,  when  I  spoke  to  her  last,  she  hadn't   made   no   reply. 
Leaning  over  her,  I  felt  round  for   her   face,   and  had  jist 
touched  her  cold  cheek,  and  called  to  her  to  know  if  she  was 
alive,  when  I  heerd  jist  over  my  head  the  awfulest  roar 
that  ever  come  out  uv  a  creter's  throat ;  and  so  loud,  that  it 
echoed  through  and  through  the  cave  enough  to  deaf  you. 
The  minute  I  heerd  it,  I  knew  what  was  tew  pay,  and  give 
dp  for  lost.     It  wor  the  man  o'  the  house  come  home  in  a 
hurry  to  see  what  them  squalls  uv  the  dying  kittens  meant ; 
and  that's  how  I  said  they  come  nigh  beating  me  even  arter 
they  was  dead. 

"  Now,  mister,  what  would  you  say  a  man  had  ought  to 


THE    PAINTER    AND    UNCLE    'siAIl's    HARNAII.  301 

have  done  in  such  a  fix  as  that?  —  run,  or  stay?  Mind  ye,  I 
hadn't  the  fust  thing  in  shape  uv  a  we'pon,  nor  couldn't  got 
hold  even  uv  my  stick,  nor  the  stones  outside  ;  and  what 
could  a  feller  do  with  his  naked  fists,  shet  up  in  a  hoLj  with 
a  wild-cat?" 

"  It  was  a  trying  situation  ;  but  I  don't  believe  you  ran 
away."  said  Mr.  Brown  good-humoredly. 

"  Yer  bet  your  life  on  that,  stranger,"  replied  Seth  with 
emphasis.  "  I  hadn't  no  idee  on't ;  though  the  only  other 
chance  seemed  to  be  to  jump  down  the  critter's  throat,  and 
choke  him,  so's  ter  spile  his  stomach  for  Harnah. 

"  I  looked  to  the*  mouth  uv  the  cave,  and  thought,  '  He 
won't  get  by  that  karkiss  very  easy  ; '  and  then,  all  of  a  sud 
den,  the  strangest  idee  you  ever  heerd  come  acrost  me,  and 
I  jumped  as  though  I'd  been  shot.  It  wor  to  play  off  one  of 
the  critters  agin  the  other,  and  keep  the  old  painter  out  uv 
his  den  with  the  karkiss  of  his  mate'. 

"  It  wor  a  curus  idee,  now,  worn't  it ;  but  they  say  a  drowrid- 
ing  mau'll  clinch  to  a  straw,  and  this  wor  worth  the  trying 
to  a  feller  in  as  tight  a  place  as  I.  So  I  tumbled  the  old 
lady  over  as  well  as  I  could,  and  got  her  wedged  inter  the 
narrerest  part  uv  the  road,  with  her  back  rounded  r,m,  and 
her  paws  in,  so's't  I  should  have  a  better  chance  for  hang- 


302  THE    PAINTER    AND    UNCLE    'SIAIl'S    HARNAI1. 

jng  on  than   the   old   feller   outside   'ud    have   for  pulling 
Then,  with  my  jack-knife,  I  cut  a  slit  in  one  of  the  fore-legs 
and  one  of  the  hind,  to  put  my  hands  inter  ;  and  then  I  held 
on. 

"  'Twa'u't  but  a  minute  arter  I  got  fixed  'fore  he  wor 
down  upon  me,  yelling  and  squalling  enough  ter  make  a 
man's  blood  run  cold.  They  call  'em  Injin  Devils  down  our 
way  ;  and  I  guess  there  ain't  no  kind  uv  devils  make  a  wuss- 
soundin'  noise.  I  jist  shut  my  eyes,  and  lay  low  ;  for  when 
I  knowed  that  furce,  wild  creter  wor  within  two  foot  uv  me, 
and  nothing  ter  keep  him  off  but  a  karkiss  that  he'd  claw 
ter  pieces  in  ten  minutes,  I  kinder  wondered  how  I'd  been 
sich  a  plaguy  fool  as  to  think  uv  the  plan,  and  ter  feel  so 
pleased  with  it. 

"  And  didn't  yer  never  mind,  sir,  when  you've  been  laying 
out  for  some  great  pull,  you  feel  as  if  you'd  got  fixed  fust- 
rate,  and  was  sure  ter  win,  till  the  minute  comes  ;  and  then, 
all  ter  once,  your  gitting-ready  seems  no  account  somehow, 
and  you  feel  downright  shamed  uv  what,  a  minute  before, 
made  you  so  chirk  ?  " 

"Yes,  trat  is  human  nature,  Seth ;  but  it  is  well  to 
remember  that  cool  precaution  is  worth  more  than  excite 
ment,  after  all,"  said  Mr.  Brown. 


THE    PAINTER   AND    UNCLE    'SIAITS    HARNAH.  303 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  suppose  so  now  ;  but  I  didn't  then.  It  only 
seemed  to  me  as  ef  I  was  a  darned  fool,  though  I  couldn't 
hev  said  what  I'd  ought  to  hev  done  different  ef  I'd  be  MI 
ever  so  wise.  Well,  the  critter  come,  and  he  stuck  his 
head  in,  snuffing  and  smelling  for  a  minute ;  and  then 
reached  in  one  paw,  jest  as  softly  as  you've  seed  a  pussy-cat 
feeling  uv  a  ball  uv  yarn  on  the  floor.  Then  he  growled  ; 
for  either  he'd  smelt  or  he'd  seed  me  a-peekin'  over  the  old 
woman's  corpse  at  him.  Hokey  !  didn't  I  wish  I'd  a  good 
gun  handy  jis'  then,  with  sech  a  splendid  chance  to  sight  it ! 
But  I  hadn't ;  and  thar  was  the  critter,  growling  and  tearing 
away  at  the  karkiss  like  mad  :  fer  he'd  pooty  much  made  up 
his  mind  by  this  time  what  sort  o'  game  lay  behind  it, 
and  he  was  bound  to  be  at  it.  Any  one  would  'a  thought 
his  nateral  feelings  would  'a  stood  in  the  way  some,  seeiu' 
as  'tvvor  his  own  wife  he  wor  clapper-clawin'  at  sich  a  rate  ; 
but  they  didn't  seem  to  a  bit :  and,  I  tell  you,  he  made  the 
fur  fly  'thout  con-sideration.  The  blood  streamed  down  inter 
iny  face,  and  the  smell  of  that  and  the  flesh  choked  me. 
My  arms  wor  straightened  clean  out  with  holding  on  ;  and 
sometimes  I  could  jest  see  the  green  eyes  o'  the  painter,  an* 
feel  his  hot  breath,  as  he  opened  his  jaws  to  hiss  and  spit  at 
me  jis'  like  a  big  cat.  I  felt  the  eend  uv  all  things  wor  at 


304  THE    PAINTER   AND    UNCLE    'SIAH'S    HAHNAII. 

hand  ;  an',  shettin'  my  eyes,  I  tried  hard  ter  say  a  prayer,  or 
somethin'  good  an*  fittin'.  I  couldn't  think  o'  none,  how- 
s'ever  :  so  I  jis'  turned  raound,  and  sez,  '  Harnah  !  good-by, 
llarnah  !  '  an*  felt  most  as  if  I'd  prayed ;  though  she,  poor 
gal !  wor  clean  swownded  away,  and  never  heerd  a  word 
on't. 

"  Jes'  then,  when  my  thoughts  wor  so  took  up  that  I'd 
act' ally  most  forgot  where  I  wor,  and  jes*  held  on  to  the  crit 
ter  kind  o'  mechanical-like,  I  heerd  a  shot,  and  then  another. 
The  painter  heerd  'em  too,  an*  more  than  heerd  'em,  I  reckon  ; 
for,  with  a  growl  an'  a  roar  that  made  me  scringe,  he  let  go 
the  karkiss,  an'  backed  hisself  out  o'  the  hole  'thout  never 
sayin  good-by  to  me  nor  to  the  old  lady. 

u  Next  minute  I  heerd  another  shot,  and  then  another  ;  and 
then  sech  horrid  groans  and  screams,  mixed  up  with  growls 
and  hisses  from  the  painter,  that  I  knew  he  wor  hit  hard,  an* 
like  to  die  ;  and,  ef  I  should  say  I  wor  sorry,  it  'ud  be  a  lie. 

Then  I  heerd  feet  climbing  and  scrambling  down  the  rocks  ; 

• 

and  next  I  heerd  a  v'ice  calling,  kind  o'  frightcned-like,  — 
"  '  Be  you  raound  here,  Harnah,  or  Seth?  ' 
" '  Yes,  we  be/  says  I,  waking  up  all  uv  a  sudden ;  for 
I'd  lay  sort  o'  stupid  till  then  :  but  now  I  wor  wide  enough 
awake,  and  soon  made  Sam  understand  where  we  was,  and 


THE    PAINTER    AND    UNCLE     8IAH  8    HARNAH.  oOa 

what  was  to  be  done.  lie  didn't  say  much,  but  worked 
away  like  a  good  feller,  till  he  got  out,  fust  the  mauled  kar- 
kiss  o'  the  painter,  with  the  flesh  all  hanging  from  it  in 
strips  ;  then  me,  covered  with  blood,  and  looking  wuss  than 
a  dead  man,  I  expect ;  and  finally  Haruah,  jes'  coming  to 
after  her  dead  faint. 

"  4  We  must  git  her  out  o'  this  horrid  den  'fore  she  knows 
whar  she  is,  or  it'll  skeer  her  to  death/  says  I,  as  soon  as  I 
could  speak.  '  But  how'll  we  do  it  ? ' 

"  '  You  look  as  if  you  b'longed  here  ;  so  I  reckon  you'd, 
better  stop  behind,  and  I'll  git  Harnah  out  by  myself,'  says 
Sam,  laffin'  in  a  kind  o'  hard  way. 

"  I  didn't  say  nothing  ;  but  I  thought  I  wouldn't  'a  took  that 
time  to  laff  at  a  feller,  nor  yet  to  show  a  spite  agin  him,  if 
I'd  been  Sam,  and  he  me. 

"  It's  more  nor  I  could  do  to  justly  tell  you  how  we  ever 
got  that  gal  up  them  rocks.  I  expect  it  wor  more  the  hand 
o'  God,  so  to  speak,  than  us  that  did  it.  Fust  place,  we 
tied  our  handkerchers  raouud  her  waist,  fer  a  hold  ,  and 
then  Sam  went  ahead,  pulling  her  after  him,  and  I  sort  o' 
helped  behind,  and  dim'  along  as  well's  I  could  ;  and  bimby 
we  got  up,  and  laid  Harnah  down  to  rest  among  the  hare 
bells.  When  she  got  a  little  smarter,  she  told  in  how 
20 


306  THE    PAINTER    AND    UNCLE    'siAIl's    HARNiVII. 

she  thought  she'd  come  and  git  'em  fer  herself,  and  then  per- 
tend  some  one  had  given  'em  to  her,  jest  so's  to  plague  us, 
and  see  what  we'd  say.  Then,  whilst  she  was  a-picking  of 
'em,  she  hcerd  a  painter  cry  right  clost  to  her,  and  was  so 
scared,  she  sot  out  to  run,  and,  fust  she  knew,  was  over  the 
edge  of  the  clift,  and  rolling  down  the  face  on't.  When  she 
got  to  the  bottom,  her  leg  was  broke,  and  she  couldn't  stir  ; 
and  up  to  the  top  o'  the  rocks  she  see  the  painter's  head, 
with  his  green  eyeballs  a-glaring  down  at  her,  and  his  ears 
laid  back,  ready  for  a  spring.  What  with  the  pain,  and 
what  with  the  scare,  I  expect  the  poor  gal  fainted.  Any 
ways,  the  next  thing  she  kuowed  was  finding  herself  in  the 
cave  with  the  two  painter-kittens  playing  round  her,  and  the 
old  one  lying  close  to,  moving  his  tail  from  side  to  side,  and 
yawning  till  she  could  see  all  his  white  teeth  and  great  red 
throat.  Ef  she  wor  scart  afore,  she  didn't  feel  no  better 
now,  you'd  better  believe.  But  Harnali  was  a  stout-hearted 
gal,  with  all  her  delicate  ways ;  and  she  never  stirred,  nor 
made  a  sound,  only  lay  still,  and  fixed  her  eyes  as  stiddy  as 
she  could  on  those  uv  the  great  brute  beside  her.  Pooty 
poon  she  see  that  he  wor  a-looking  at  her ;  and  pooty  soon 
he  began  to  make  x  purring  sort  of  noise,  like  'bout  forty  big 
tomcats  tied  up  in  one  bag.  Then  Haraah  spoke  to  him. 


THE    PAINTER    AND    UNCLE    'siVIl's    HARNAII.  307 

like  as  she'd  have  coaxed  a  dog,  and,  arter  a  while,  began  to 
play  with  the  cubs  a  little.  One  way  and  another,  they'd  got 
to  be  'mazin'  good  friends  all  raound,  when  a  cry  was  heerd 
outside  ;  and  the  old  man  and  the  little  ones  pricked  up  their 
ears,  and  yowled  in  answer.  It  wor  the  old  woman  coming 
home,  sure  enough  ;  and  the  minute  she  poked  her  snout  inter 
the  den,  and  see  what  company  her  man  had  got  while  she 
wor  gone,  the  trouble  begun.  Harnah,  naterally,  wor  too 
much  skeered  to  see  justly  what  went  on  :  but  there  were  a 
big  fight  somehow  ;  and  she  got  a  notion  that  the  she-painter 
wanted  to  fall  afoul  uv  her,  and  that  he  wouldn't  let  her ; 
and,  like  other  married  folks,  from  words  they  come  to 
blows  ;  and  the  upshot  uv  the  hull  was,  that  the  old  lady  got 
the  wust  on't,  and  lay  dead  on  the  field  uv  action. 

"  Whether  the  husband  felt  bad,  or  whether  he  wanted 
simthin'  to  eat,  or  whether  he  had  an  engagement  with 
another  lady,  I  couldn't  say ;  but,  the  minute  he'd  given  the 
finishing  blow  to  his  wife,  he  cleared  out,  and  didn't  come 
back  till  the  cubs  called  him  to  see  to  me. 

u  Well,  we  got  Harnah  home  somehow ;  and  next  day 
we  come  again,  and  skun  the  old  tiger  and  the  cubs  ;  and 
I  got  a  hull  heap  o'  harebells.  I  was  bound,  that,  after  all 
(he  fuss,  Harnah  shouldn't  lose  her  harebells  ;  and  she 
didn't." 


."JOS  THE    PAINTER    AND    UNCLE    'SIAIl's    HARNAH. 

Sefh  was  silent ;  and,  tilting  his  chair  a  little  farther 
back,  crossed  his  hands  above  his  chest,  and  began  to 
whistle  softly.  The  company  looked  at  him  inquiringly; 
and,  after  a  pause,  Karl  asked,  — 

"Well,  what  next,  Seth?" 

"  Nothing,  cap' u  :  that's  all ;  except  I  didn't  tell  how 
Sam  see  me  going  up  the  river,  and  suspicioned  I  wor  a 
going  to  meet  Harnah,  and  so  dropped  all,  and  followed  on. 
What  he  brought  his  gun  fer,  I  didn't  never  ask  him." 

"But  Hannah  —  what  became  of  her?" 

"  Oh  !  she  was  kind  o'  peeked  a  while,  with  her  broken 
leg ;  but,  arter  that,  she  was  as  well  as  ever." 

"Yes;  but  how  did  her  love-affairs  terminate?"  per 
sisted  Karl. 

"  Waal,  she  married  Sam  Hedge  the  next  fall ;  and  I 
guess  -their  love-affairs  turned  out  like  other  folkses  a  good 
deal,  —  lots  o'  'lasses  at  fust,  and,  arter  a  while,  lots  o' 
vinegar  :  that's  the  way  o'  merried  life." 

In  delivering  this  sentiment,  Seth  bestowed  a  sidelong 
glance  upon  Mehitable,  far  more  merry  than  sincere  in  its 
expression  ;  but  she,  tranquilly  pursuing  her  knitting,  let 
fall  her  retort,  as  if  she  had  not  perceived  the  sarcasm. 

"  Oli,  waal !  "  said  she,  "  I  don't  know  as  I've  any  call 


THE    PAINTER    AND    UNCLE    'SIAH'S    HARNAH.  309 

to  find  fault  with  merried  life.  Setli's  made  as  good  a  hus 
band  as  a  gal  has  a  right  to  expect  that  takes  a  feller  out 
o'  pity  'cause  he's  been  mittened  by  another  gal." 

The  laugh  remained  upon  the  feminine  side  of  the  argu 
ment,  and  the  party  merrily  separated  for  the  night.  » 


CHAPTER     XXXIII. 

A   tfLKAM    OF   DAWN. 

ONCE  more  a  summer  sunset  at  the  old  farm-house 
among  the  Berkshire  Hills,  where,  for  a  hundred  years, 
successive  generations  of  Windsors  had  been  born  and 
bred ;  once  more  we  see  the  level  rays  glance  from  the 
diamond-paned,  dairy  casement,  left  ajar  to  admit  the  fresh 
evening  air ;  once  more  the  airy  banners  of  eglantine  and 
maiden's-bower  float  against  the  clear  blue  sky ;  once  more 
we  tread  in  fancy  the  green  velvet  of  the  turf,  creeping  over 
the  very  edge  of  the  irregular  door-stone,  worn  smooth  by 
feet  that  long  since  have  travelled  beyond  earthly  limits, 
and  now  tread  celestial  fields  and  sunny  slopes  of  Paradise. 
Far  across  the  meadow  lies  the  shadow  of  the  old  house,  — 
a  strange,  fantastic  suggestion  of  a  dwelling,  vague  and 
enticing  as  the  gray  turrets  of  the  Castle  of  St.  John,  which, 
as  the  legend  says,  are  to  be  shaped  at  twilight  from  the 
crags  and  ravines  of  the  lonely  mountains,  but  vanish  in 
the  daylight.  And  beside  it,  not  vague,  but  clear  and 
310 


A    GLEAM    OF    DAWN.  311 

sharp,  lay  the  shadow  of  the  old  well-sweep,  like  a  gia.il 
finger,  pointing,  always  pointing,  now  to  the  east,  whcnse 
cometh  light  and  hope,  and  the  promise  of  another  day  ; 
and  anon  due  west,  as  showing  to  the  sad  eyes  that  watched 
it  the  road  to  joy  and  comfort. 

Within  the  house,  much  was  changed.  The  floors 
were  covered  with  matting,  the  walls  with  delicate  paper- 
hangings  ;  the  old  furniture  replaced  with  Indian  couches 
and  arm-chairs,  whose  shape  and  material  suggested  luxu 
rious  ease  and  coolness.  In  the  chamber  that  had  been 
Dora's,  was  wrought,  perhaps,  the  greatest  change  of  all ; 
for  to  the  rugged  simplicity,  and,  so  to  speak,  severity,  of 
the  young  girl's  "surroundings,  had  succeeded  the  luxury, 
the  exquisite  refinement,  essential  to  the  comfort  of  a  woman 
born  and  bred  in  the  innermost  sanctuary  of  modern  civili 
zation.  The  martial  relics  of  Dora's  camp-life  had  disap 
peared  from  the  walls,  no  longer  simply  whitewashed,  but 
covered  with  a  pearl-gray  paper,  over  which  trailed  in 
graceful  curves  a  mimic  ivy-vine,  colored  like  nature. 
Upon  this  hung  a  few  choice  pictures,  —  proof-engravings  of 
Correggio's  Cherubs  ;  a  Christ  blessing  Little  Children  ;  a 
Madonna,  with  sad,  soft  eyes  resting  upon  the  Holy  Child, 
whose  fixed  gaze  seemed  to  read  his  own  sublime  destiny  ; 
and  a  Babes  in  the  Wood. 


312  A    GLEAM    OF    DA  VN. 

Over  the  fireplace,  the  rude  sketch  of  the  deformed  negrc 
was  replaced  by  an  exquisite  painting,  representing  a  little 
girl,  —  her  sweet  face  framed  in  a  shower  of  golden  ringlets, 
her  blue  eyes  fixed  with  a  sort  of  wistful  tenderness  upon 
the  beholder ;  this  expression  repeating  itself  in  the  lines 
of  the  curving  mouth.  The  dress  was  carefully  copied  from 
that  worn  by  'Toinette  Legrange  upon  the  day  she  was  lost ; 
and  the  picture  had  been  painted,  soon  after  her  disappear 
ance,  by  an  artist  friend  of  the  family,  who  had  so  often  ad 
mired  the  beautiful  child,  that  he  found  it  easy  to  reproduce 
her  face  upon  canvas  ;  although  his  own  knowledge  of  the  cir 
cumstances,  and  perhaps  the  haunting  presence  of  the  sad 
eyes  of  the  mother,  as  she  asked,  "  Oh !  can  you  give  me 
even  a  picture  of  her  ? "  had  tinged  the  whole  composition 
with  a  pathos  not  intended  by  the  artist,  but  indescribably 
touching  to  the  spectator. 

Between  the  windows,  in  place  of  Dora's  simple  pine 
table,  with  its  white  drapery,  its  few  plain  books,  arid  little 
work-box,  stood  a  toilet-table,  covered  with  the  luxurious 
necessities  of  an  elegant  woman's  wardrobe.  The  dressing- 
case,  the  jewel-box,  the  perfume-bottles  ;  the  velvet-lined  and 
delicately-scented  mouchoir  and  glove  boxes  ;  the  varied  tri 
fles,  so  idle  in  detail,  so  essential  to  the  whole,  —  all  wej> 
there,  and  all  evidently  in  constant  use. 


A.  GLEAM    OF    DAWN.  6\6 

Nor  let  us  too  harshly  judge  the  mode  of  life,  differ  though 
it  may  from  our  own,  which  regards  these  superfluities  as 
essential,  and  can  hardly  less  dispense  with  them  than  with 
its  daily  bread.  The  violet,  the  anemone,  the  May-flower, 
a  hundred  sweet  and  hardy  blossoms,  thrive  amid  the  chills 
and  storms  of  early  spring  in  the  most  exposed  situations. 
But  are  not  the  exquisite  tea-rose,  the  fragile  garden-lily,  or 
the  cereus,  that  dies  after  one  sweet  night  of  perfumed 
beauty,  as  true  to  their  nature  and  to  God's  law?  Did  not 
the  same  hand  form  the  sparrow,  who  scatters  the  late  snow 
from  his  wings,  and  gayly  pecks  the  crumbs  from  our  door 
step,  arid  the  humming-bird,  who  waits  for  gorgeous  sum 
mer  noons  to  come  and  sip  the  honey  from  our  jessamine  ? 

So  let  us,  if  we  will,  love  Dora  in  the  Spartan  simplicity 
of  her  soldierly  adornments,  and  none  the  less  love  and  cher- 
isti  the  woman  who  now  lies  upon  the  very  spot,  where,  but  a 
year  ago,  lay  little  Sunshine,  wavering  between  this  life  and 
a  better.  For  some  reason  unknown  to  herself,  Mrs.  Le- 
grauge  had,  from  the  first,  felt  a  strong  affection  for  this 
chamber,  haunted,  though  she  knew  it  not,  by  the  presence 
of  the  belovetJ  child  ;  and  she  had  taken  much  pleasure  in 
its  adornment ;  though,  now  that  all  was  done,  she  rareiy 
uoticed  the  beautiful  articles  collected  about  her,  liking  best 


314  A    GLEAM    OF    DAWN. 

of  all  to  lie  in  dreamy  re  very,  recalling,  day  after  day,  with 
the  minute  fondness  of  a  woman's  memory,  the  looks,  the 
gestures,  the  careless  words,  the  pretty,  graceful  ways,  Ihe 
artless  fascinations,  of  her  whom  now  she  rarely  named,  — 
holding  her  memory  as  something  too  sacred  for  common 
speech,  too  far  withdrawn  into  her  own  heart  to  be  lightly 
brought  to  the  surface. 

Thus  lying  in  the  twilight  of  this  evening,  dreamily  watch 
ing  the  long  white  curtains  as  they  filled  with  the  night-air 
and  floated  out  into  the  room  like  the  shadowy  sails  of  a 
bark  anchored  in  some  Dreamland  bay,  and  never  guessing 
whose  eyes  had  watched  their  waving  biit  one  short  year  be 
fore,  when  "Toinette  was  first  laid  in  Dora's  little  bed,  Mrs. 
Legrange  heard  her  husband  coming  up  the  stairs,  and  rose 
to  receive  him,  with  a  strange  fluttering  at  her  heart,  —  a 
sort  of  nervous  hope  and  terror  all  in  one,  as  if  she  had 
known  him  the  bearer  of  great  news,  but  could  not  yet  de 
termine  its  tenor. 

Mr.  Legrange  entered,  holding  a  letter  in  his  hand,  and 
glanced  tenderly,  but  with  some  surprise,  at  his  wife,  who 
stood  with  one  hand  pressing  the  white  folds  of  her  muslin 
wrapper  convulsively  to  her  bosom,  the  other  outstretched 
toward  him,  a  sudden  hectic  burning  in  her  cheeks,  and  her 
eyes  bright  with  feverish  light. 


A    GLEAM   OF   DAWN.  315 

"Fanny!  what  is  it?"  exclaimed  the  husband,  pausing 
upon  the  threshold. 

"  That  letter  —  you  have  some  jews  !  O  Paul,  you  have 
news  of"  — 

Her  voice  died  in  a  breathless  flutter  ;  and  Mr.  Lcgrange, 
coming  hastily  to  her  side,  drew  her  to  a  seat,  saying  ten 
derly,  — 

u  No,  darling,  no  news  of  her,  —  not  yet,  at  least.  What 
made  you  fancy  it?  This  is  only  a  letter  from  your  protege 
at  Antioch  College  :  at  least,  I  suppose  so  from  the  postmark. 
Do  you  care  to  read  it  now  ?  " 

Mrs.  Legrange  hid  her  face  upon  her  husband's  breast, 
trembling  nervously. 

"  0  Paul !  when  I  heard  you  coming  up  the  stairs,  such 
a  feeling  came  over  me  !  I  seemed  to  feel  some  great  reve 
lation  approaching.  I  was  sure  it  was  news  of  her.  Paul, 
Paul,  I  cannot  bear  it ;  I  cannot  live  !  My  heart  is  broken  ; 
but  it  will  not  die,  and  let  me  rest.  O  my  God  !  ho\v 
long?" 

"  Hush,  dearest,  hush !  Your  wild  words  are  to  me 
worse  than  the  grief  we  both  suffer  so  keenly.  But,  my 
wife,  have  we  not  each  other?  and  would  you  kill  me  by 
your  own  despair?  Will  God  be  pleased,  that,  because  he 


316  A    GLEAM    OF    DAWN. 

has  taken  away  our  Sunshine,  we  refuse  all  other  blessings, 
and  disdain  all  other  ties  and  obligations  ?  Fanny,  dearest, 
is  it  not  an  earnest  duty  with  you  to  strive  for  strength  ?  " 

But  the  mother  only  moaned  impatiently,  — 

"  O  Paul !  do  not  try,  do  not  talk :  it  is  useless.  When 
you  let  fall  that  crystal  vinaigrette  this  morning,  did  you 
tell  it  that  its  duty  was  to  be  whole,  and  filled  with  perfume 
again?  Do  you  tell  those  flowers  that  it  is  their  duty  to  be 
fresh  and  sweet  as  they  were  yesterday?  or,  if  you  did, 
would  they  heed  you  ?  " 

"  No,  darling ;  for  they  have  neither  mind  nor  soul," 
suggested  the  husband  significantly. 

"  And  mine  are  swallowed  up  in  the  sorrow  that  has 
swallowed  all  else.  O  Paul !  forgive  me,  and  ask  God  to 
forgive  me  ;  but  I  cannot,  I  never  can,  become  resigned.  I 
cannot  live  ;  I  cannot  wish  or  try  to  live.  A  little  while, 
and  I  shall  see  her." 

She  spoke  the  last  words  softly,  as  to  her  own  heart ;  and 
over  her  face  passed  such  a  look  of  solemn  joy,  such  yearn 
ing  tenderness,  mingled  with  an  infinite  pathos,  that  the 
stronger  and  less  sensitive  male  organization  stood  awed 
and  subdued  before  it. 

u  Her  love  and  grief  arc  deeper  than  any  words  of  mine 


A   GLEAM    OF    DAWN.  317 

can.  reach,"  thought  the  husband,  and,  so,  tenderly  soothed 
her  head  upon  his  breast,  and  said  no  more  for  several 
minutes,  until,  to  his  surprise,  it  was  lifted,  and  the  pale 
face  looked  into  his  with  the  pensive  calmness  under  which 
it  habitually  hid  its  more  intimate  expressions. 

"  From  whom  did  you  say  the  letter  came,  Paul?"  asked 
Mrs.  Legrange. 

"  From  Theodore  Ginniss,  I  believe.  Will  you  read  it 
now  ? "  asked  her  husband,  in  some  surprise  at  the  sudden 
transition :  for  no  man  ever  thoroughly  comprehends  a 
woman,  no  woman  a  man  ;  and  so  is  the  distinctive  tempera 
ment  of  the  sexes  preserved. 

u  Yes  :  I  told  him  to  write  to  me  once  in  every  month, 
and  he  is  very  punctual." 

She  opened  the  letter,  and  read  aloud  :  — 
"  DEAR  MRS.  LEGRANGE,  — 

"  Since  writing  to  you  last  month,  I  have  been  going  on 
with  my  studies  under  the  Rev.  Mr.  Brown,  as  I  then  men 
tioned.  I  do  not  find  that  it  hurts  me  to  study  in  the  hot 
weather  at  all ;  and  I  have  enjoyed  my  vacation  better  this 
way  than  if  I  had  been  idle. 

"  Part  of  the  month,  however,  Mr.  Brown  has  been  away 
on  a  visit  to  some  friends  in  Iowa  ;  and  lie  says  so 


318  A    GLEAM    OF    DAWN. 

about  the  prairies,  and  the  great  rivers,  and  the  wild  life  out 
there,  tha<  I  think  I  should  like  to  take  the  two  remaining 
weeks  of  the  vacation,  and  go  and  see  them,  if  you  have  no 
objection.  I  have  a  great  plenty  of  money  from  my  last 
quarter's  allowance,  as  I  have  only  needed  to  spend  a  dollar 
and  forty-five  cents.  Mr.  Brown  thinks  I  should  come  back 
fresher  to  my  studies  for  a  little  rest ;  though  I  do  not  feel 
the  need  of  it,  and  am  glad  of  every  day's  new  chance  of 
learning. 

I  hope  you  will  excuse  me,  Mrs.  Legrange,  if  it  is  too 
bold  for  me  to  say,  but  I  do  wish  you  could  talk  with  Mr. 
Brown  a  little ;  he  is  so  high  in  all  his  ideas,  and  seems  to 
feel  so  strong  about  all  the  troubles  of  this  world,  and  puts 
what  a  man  ought  to  live  for  so  much  above  the  way  he  has 
to  live  ! 

"  I  took  the  liberty  of  talking  with  him  about  you,  and 
about  the  great  trouble  I  had  helped  to  bring  upon  you  ;  and 
what  he  said  was  first-rate,  though  I  cannot  tell  it  again. 
I  felt  ever  so  much  better  about  my  own  doing  wrong,  and  I 
could  not  help  wishing  you  could  hear  what  he  said  about 
you. 

"  Tliis  place  is  a  great  resort  for  invalids,  and  people  who 
like  to  be  retired.  The  iron-springs,  that  give  the  name  to 


A    GLEAM    OF    DAWN. 

the  town,  are  said  to  be  very  strengthening ;  and  the  Neff 
House,  near  them,  is  a  beautiful  hotel  in  very  romantic 
scenery,  and  quite  still.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  ladies  I 
see  riding  out  from  it  on  horseback  get  healthier-lboking 
every  day. 

"  I  enclose  a  letter  for  mother,  and  will  ask  of  you  the 
favor  to  read  it  to  her.  I  cannot  tell  you,  Mrs.  Legrange, 
how  grateful  I  feel  to  you  for  making  her  so  comfortable,  as 
well  as  for  what  you  are  doing  for  me.  And  it  is  not  only 
you  I  thank  and  remember  every  morning  and  every  night ; 
but,  with  yours,  I  say  the  name  of  the  angel  that  we  both 
love  so  dear. 

"  Yours  respectfully, 

"THEODORE  GINNISS." 

Mrs.  Legrange  slowly  folded  the  letter,  and  looked  at  her 
husband,  saying  dreamily,  — 

"  I  should  like  to  see  this  Mr.  Brown.  Perhaps  he  has 
some  comfort  for  me  ;  and  that  was  what  I  felt  approaching 
in  that  letter." 

Mr.  Legrange  smiled  a  little  compassionately,  and  more 
than  a  little  tenderly. 

"  I  am  afraid,  love,  you  would  be  disappointed.  A  man 
might  seem  a  marvel  of  eloquence  and  wisdom  to  poor 


A    GLEAM    OF    DAWN. 

Theodore,  while  you  would  find  him  a  very  commonplace,  per 
haps  obtrusive  individual." 

Mrs.  Legrange  slowly  shook  her  head. 

*k  f  feel  just  as  if  that  man  could  give  me  comfort.  I 
must  see  him." 

"  Very  well,  dear  :  if  it  will  give  you  the  slightest  pleasure, 
you  shall  certainly  do  so.  Shall  I  send  and  invite  him  here  ? 
or  do  you  think  the  journey  to  Ohio  would  be  a  pleasant  va 
riety  for  you  ?  Perhaps  it  might ;  and  Teddy's  elaborately 
artless  recommendation  of  the  Neff  House  and  the  iron- 
springs  is  worthy  of  some  attention." 

u  Yes  :  I  will  go  there.  I  think  I  should  like  the  journey, 
and  I  don't  object  to  trying  the  springs  ;  and  I  should  like  to 
see  Theodore,  and  hear  him  talk  about  —  her.  And  I  am 
sure  I  shall  not  find  Mr.  Brown  commonplace  or  obtrusive." 

«  Very  well,  dear  :  it  shall  be  as  you  say.  When  shall  we 
go?  It  will  be  very  hot  travelling  now,  I  am  afraid." 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  don't  mind.  But  I  don't  want  to  interfere 
with  the  Western  excursion  Theodore  so  modestly  suggests  ; 
nor  do  I  wish  to  go  while  he  is  away.  We  will  go  in  the  mid 
dle  of  September,  I  think." 

u  Yes,  that  will  do,  and  will  give  you  something  to  be 
thinking  of  meantime,"  said  Mr.  Legrange,  looking  with 


A    GLEAM    OF    DAWN.  O'2\ 

satisfaction  at  the  healthy  animation  of  his  wife's  face,  ns 
she  re-read  the  portion  of  Teddy's  letter  relating  to  Yellow 
Springs  and  the  Neff  House. 

"And  now,"  said  she,  "  go  and  send  Mrs.  Ginniss  up  to 
me  to  hear  her  letter  too,  —  that  is,  if  you  please  ;  for,  you 
humor  me  so  much,  I  know  I  am  growing  tyrannical  in  speech 
as  well  as  in  act. 

Mr.  Legrange  stooped  to  kiss  his  wife's  cheek  ;  and,  to  his 
eyes,  the  faint  smile  with  which  she  repaid  the  caress  was 
the  fair  dawn  of  a  brighter  day. 

ai 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 

THE    FIRST   CHANCE. 

• 

MR.  BROWN  had  been  a  week  at  Outpost,  and,  at  break 
fast  one  morning,  announced  his  departure  for  the  succeed 
ing  day. 

u  And  if  you  feel  able  to  ride  so  far,  Dora,"  continued 
he,  "perhaps  you  will  show  me  the  way  to  the  curious 
mounds  we  heard  of  from  Dr.  Grershom." 

"  They  are  full  ten  miles  from  here,  he  said,"  remarked 
Kitty  disapprovingly. 

"  To-day  is  the  24th,  isn't  it,  Dora?  the  24th  of  August?" 
inquired  Karl ;  aad  Dora,  if  no  other  of  his  auditors,  saw 
the  connection  between  this  remark  and  the  proposed  long 
ride  with  Mr.  Brcwn. 

"  Yes,  Karl ;  it  is  the  24th  :  and  I  think  we  can  make 
a  party  for  the  mounds,  Mr.  Brown.  Kitty,  wouldn't 
you  like  to  go?  and,  Karl,  can't  yon  take  a  holiday?  Sun 
shine  might  stay  with  Mehitable  for  once  ;  mightn't  she?  " 

"  No  ;  because  she  speaks  too  loud,  and  through  her  nose  : 
322 


THE    FIRST   CHANCE.  323 

but  I'll  stay  with  Argus  and  the  woods,"  said  Sunshine 
quietly. 

"  But  have  we  horses  enough?"  asked  Kitty  with  anima 
tion. 

"  That  is  easily  settled,"  interposed  Karl  eagerly.  "  1 
will  fix:  Sunshine's  pillion  upon  Major,  and  Dora  can  ride 
behind  me.  Then  Kitty  can  take  Max,  and  Mr.  Brown  will 
ride  his  own  horse." 

"  Oh  !  there  is  no  need  of  Major's  carrying  double,"  said 
Dora  hastily.  "  Seth  can  spare  Sally  as  well  as  not,  and 
Kitty  can  ride  her  better  than  she  can  Max." 

At  this  decision,  Kitty  looked  a  little  vexed,  and  Karl  a 
little  discomfited ;  while  Mr.  Brown  bent  over  his  plate  to 
hide  a  sudden  gleam  of  humor  in  his  dark  eyes.  As  they 
all  rose  from  table,  Karl  passed  close  to  his  cousin,  and 
whispered,  — 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you  before  we  go." 

Dora  made  no  answer  ;  nor,  in  the  busy  hour  before  the^ 
started,  could  her  cousin  find  opportunity  for  a  single  pri 
vate  word.  Nor  was  he  more  successful  in  the  bold  push 
made  by  him,  so  soon  as  they  had -started,  for  the  place  be 
side  Dora ;  for  she,  thinking  just  then  of  some  important 
communication  for  Kitty's  ear,  reined  her  pony  close  to 


324  THE    FIRST    CHANCE. 

that  young  lady's,  and  good-humoredly  desired  him  to  ride 
on  out  of  earshot.  Karl  obeyed  the  mandate  with  some 
thing  less  than  his  usual  amiability,  and  was  riding  on  in 
advance  of  the  whole  party,  when  he  found  himself  detained 
by  Mr.  Brown,  who  asked  some  trifling  question  about  the 
road,  and  then  attempted  a  conversation  upon  the  crops  and 
other  ordinary  topics  for  a  few  moments  ;  until,  unable  to 
contend  with  the  indifference,  if  not  impatience,  Karl  was  at 
no  trouble  to  conceal,  he  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  and 
then  said  abruptly,  — 

"  Windsor,  this  is  not  soldierly  or  manly." 

Karl  looked  at  him,  but  made  no  reply. 

"  We  both  know  what  is  in  the  other's  mind,"  continued 
Mr.  Brown,  u  and  we  know  that  we  cannot  both  succeed ; 
but  that  is  no  reason  for  ill  feeling  toward  each  other.  If 
we  were  Don  Quixotes,  we  might  fight ;  if  we  were 
gamesters,  we  might  throw  for  the  first  chance :  but  as  we 
are,  I  trust,  Christian  gentlemen,  we  owe  each  other  every 
kindly  feeling  short  of  a  wish  for  success." 

"  Yes  :  you  can  hardly  expect  that  of  me  ;  and  I'm  sure 
I  don't  of  you,"  said  Karl,  half  laughing. 

"  No  :  that  were  inconsistent  with  a  true  earnestness  of 
purpose,"  said  Mr.  Brown.  "  And,  after  all,  the  girl  we 


THE    FIRST    CHANCE.  325 

loth  love  is  no  such  weakling  as  to  accept  a  man  simply 
because  he  asks  her.  She  will  decide  between  us  fairly  and 
justly." 

"  Then  let  me  have  the  first  chance,  since  you  think  it  no 
advantage,"  said  Karl  impetuously. 

Mr.  Brown  smiled  grimly. 

"Is  there  not  some  proverb  about  age   before   merit? 
asked  he.     "  Besides,  you  have  had  more  than  four  years  to 
ask  your  question  in,  and  can   very  well   wait  a  few  hours 
longer.     I  came  to  Iowa  on  purpose  to  ask  mine,  and  shall 
go  away  to-morrow." 

u  I  don't  see,  sir,  but  you  saints  are  just  as  obstinate  in 
getting  what  you  want  as  we  sinners,"  said  the  younger 
man  petulantly. 

The  chaplain  laughed  outright. 

"  A  man  at  thirty  has  seldom  subdued  his  worldly  pas 
sions  and  intentions  to  the  degree  of  sainthood,"  said  he. 
u  And  I  will  not  deny  that  my  heart  is  very  much  engaged 
in  this  matter.  However,  I  will  be  generous,  and  you  may 
take  your  chance  first." 

He  reined  in  his  steed  as  he  spoke,  and,  waiting  beside 
the  road  until  the  young  ladies  came  up,  made  some  remark 
to  Kitty  relating  to  a  question  she  had  asked  him  concern- 


326  THE    FIRST    CHANCE. 

ing  Virginian  roads  as  compared  with  those  of  the  West, 
and,  hy  turning  into  the  track  beside  her,  rather  obliged 
Dora  to  ride  forward  to  the  turn  of  the  road,  where  Karl 
awaited  her.  But  Kitty's  satisfaction  in  the  decided  inten 
tion  Mr.  Brown  had  shown  of  speaking  to  her  was  rather 
dampened  by  perceiving  how  frequently  his  attention  wan 
dered  from  what  she  was  saying,  and  how  earnestly  his  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  the  two  figures  riding  briskly  in  advance. 

"If  he  can  only  look  at  Dora,  why  don't  he  go  and  ride 
with  her?"  muttered  Kitty;  and,  as  her  companion  turned 
his  eyes  inquiringly  upon  her,  she  asked  aloud,  — 

"  Are  you  pretty  quick  at  hearing,  Mr.  Brown?" 

"  Not  especially.     Why  ?  " 

"  Oh !  I  thought  you  looked  as  if  you  would  like  to  hear 
what  Charlie  is  saying  to  Dora." 

"And  you  thought  it  was  very  rude  of  me  to  be  so  inat 
tentive  to  you,"  added  Mr.  Brown,  bending  his  dark  eyes 
upon  her  with  a  smile. 

Kitty  colored  guiltily,  and  answered  hastily,  — 

"  Oh  dear,  no  !  I'm  used  to  finding  myself  of  no  account 
beside  Dora." 

Mr.  Brown  looked  again  at  her,  and  then,  with  a  sudden 
association  of  ideas,  asked,  — 


THE    FIRST    CHANCE.  327 

"  Kitty,  are  you  goiiig  to  tell  me,  before  I  go  away,  what 
made  you  feel  so  badly  the  day  I  came  and  found  you  in 
the  wood?" 

Again  Kitty's  face  glowed  beneath  his  gaze,  and  her 
bright  black  eyes  drooped  in  rare  confusion.  She  was 
about  to  answer  hastily  and  coldly,  but  found  herself  checked 
by  a  softer  impulse.  Why  should  she  not  tell  him  some 
what  of  the  trouble  at  her  heart,  and  so  win  at  least  sympa 
thy  and  pity,  if  nothing  more?  So  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  — 

"  No  one  cares  much  for  me,  I  think." 

"  No  one?  —  not  your  brother?" 

Kitty  raised  her  eyes  to  the  far  vista  point  where  Karl 
and  Dora  vanished  into  the  forest,  their  horses  moving  close 
to  each  other's  side,  and  then  brought  them  back  to  the  face 
of  her  companion.  The  look  was  eloquent,  and  he  said,  — 

"  Yes  ;  but  by  and  by,  perhaps,  he  will  not  be  so  en 
grossed." 

The  young  girl  raised  her  head  with  a  superb  gesture. 

"  To  wait  for  by  and  by,  when  some  one  else  has  done 
with  him,  is  not  my  idea  of  love." 

Mr.  Brown  looked  at  her  more  attentively,  and  smiled. 

"  I  think  the  day  will  come  when  some  man  will  love  you 


328  THE    FIRST   CHANCE. 

first  and  best  of  all,'*  said  he,  in  a  tone,  not  of  flattery, 
but  of  honest  admiration,  which  fell  like  sunlight  upon  the 
waste  places  of  poor  Kitty's  heart. 

"  Oh !  I'm  not  good  enough,  or  smart  enough,  or  good 
looking  enough.  He  never  will,"  replied  she  hastily,  and 
then  colored  crimson  again  at  the  meaning  beneath  her 
words. 

Again  Mr.  Brown  keenly  eyed  her,  and  asked,  — 

"  He?  Do  you  mean  some  one  in  particular?  No  :  for 
give  me.  I  have  no  right  to  ask  such  a  question.  I  am 
only  your  friend,  not  a  father  confessor." 

Kitty,  dumb  with  confusion  and  a  sudden  terror,  made  no 
effor  to  reply  ;  and,  after  a  moment,  Mr.  Brown  led  the  way 
to  a  quiet  conversation  upon  the  young  girl's  previous  life, 
her  early  pursuits  and  affections,  and  finally  to  the  passion 
ate  love  and  regret  for  her  dead  mother,  in  which  he  found 
the  key  to  all  she  was  and  all  she  might  be.  So  employed, 
the  psychological  student  even  forgot  his  own  affairs,  and  for 
half  an  hour  hardly  remembered  Dora  riding  on  beside 
Karl,  who,  like  the  cowardly  bather,,  dallying  first  with  one 
foot  and  then  the  other  in  the  water's  edge,  and  losing  all 
his  courage  before  the  final  plunge,  had  talked  writh  her  of 
almost  every  thing  beneath  the  sun,  and  worn  out  his  own 


THE    FIRST    CHANCE.  329 

patience   and  hers,  before  she   said,  turning  her  clear  eyes 
full  upon  him,  — 

"  Karl,  be  honest  and  straightforward.  It  is  kinder  to 
us  both." 

The  young  man  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief. 

u  That's  it,  Dora.  There  isn't  another  such  girl  in  the 
world.  Don't  you  know,  in  camp  I  used  to  say  I  relied 
upon  you  for  protection,  and  for  making  a  man  of  me 
instead  of  an  idle  boy?  O  Dora!  there's  nothing  you 
couldn't  do  with  me." 

lie  spoke  the  last  words  in  an  imploring  voice,  and  fixed 
his  eyes  upon  her  averted  face.  Then,  as  she  did  not  speak, 
he  went  on  :  — 

u  It  isn't  any  thing  I  can  offer  you,  Dora,  except  the 
chance  of  doing  good  :  I  know  that  well  enough.  What  I 
am,  you  know  ;  but  what  I  might  become  to  please  you,  none 
of  us  can  know.  And  I  do  love  you  so,  Dora  !  I  know 
it  sounds  bald  and  silly  to  say  just  these  few  words  ;  but 
they  mean  so  much  to  me  !  and  I've  meant  it  so  long  and  so 
heartily  !  No  ;  don't  speak  just  yet :  I  want  to  make  you 
feel  first,  if  I  can,  how  dreadfully  in  earnest  I  am.  When  I 
first  saw  you  there  at  your  old  home,  and  you  took  care  oi 
me  so  tenderly,  and  looked  at  me  so  pityingly  out  of  your 


330  THE    FIRST    CHANCE. 

great  brown  eyes,  my  heart  warmed  to  you  ;  and  then  in 
camp,  you  know  —  O  Dora  Darling  !  you  cannot  say  bat 
you  knew  how  dearly  I  grew  to  love  you  even  then  :  and 
when  I  found  you  were  my  own  kin  ;  and  when  you  came 
to  my  own  home,  and  my  mother  took  you  to  her  heart,  and 
thanked  God  for  having  given  her  another  daughter,  and 
such  a  daughter  ;  and  when  I  saw  your  daily  life  among  us, 
and  saw  how  noble,  and  how  unselfish,  and  how  true  and 
brave,  you  were  through  all  the  sorrow,  and  the  trials,  and 
the  loneliness,  and  the  petty  spite  and  insults,  you  had  to 
endure  ;  and  then  here,  where  you  are  like  a  wise  and 
gracious  queen  among  her  subjects,  —  O  Dora  !  what  is 
there  in  you  that  does  not  call  forth  my  highest  love,  my 
truest  reverence  ?  and  what  better  could  life  do  for  me  than 
to  grant  me  the  privilege  of  worshipping  and  following  you 
all  my  days,  and  making  myself  into  just  what  sort  of 
man  would  suit  you  best?" 

And  the  true-hearted  young  fellow  felt  his  words  strike 
home  to  his  own  soul  so  earnestly,  that  he  could  add  to 
them  nothing  of  the  flood  of  tenderness  and  homage  swell 
ing  there,  but  only  looked  at  his  cousin  piteously  ;  while 
she,  with  drooping  head  and  averted  eyes,  rode  on  for  a  few 
.moments  in  silence,  and  then  said  softly, — 


THE    FIRST    CHANCE.  3c*l 

"  I  hoped,  dear  Karl,  you  would  never  speak  of  it  again. 
We  have  been  so  happy  the  last  year  ! "  — 

"  O  Dora  ! "  interposed  the  young  man  in  a  voice  of 
agony,  "  never  say  you  are  going  to  refuse  me  !  "  Happy  ! 
yes,  I  have  been  happy,  because  I  have  looked  forward  to 
this  day,  and  thought  it  might  be  the  beginning  of  a  life 
to  which  this  has  been  but  the  gray  dawn  before  the  sun 
rise.  You  have  been  so  kind  to  me,  so  frank  and  affec 
tionate  !  and  all  the  time  you  knew  —  oh  !  you  must  have 
known  —  what  was  in  my  heart.  Yes;  and,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  this  meddling  parson's  visit"  — 

u  Hush,  Karl !  "  interrupted  Dora  decisively.  "  I  will 
not  have  you  unjust  or  ungenerous  to  a  man  far  nobler 
and  purer  and  wiser  than  either  you  or  I.  Mr.  Brown's 
visit  has  nothing  to  do  with  what  I  say  to-day  ;  nor  did  I 
know,  as  you  think  I  did,  that  you  would  again  ask  me 
the  question  you  asked  a  year  ago.  I  only  remembered 
it,  when,  last  week,  you  reminded  me  of  the  date  ;  and  I 
only  let  you  speak  to-day,  because  it  is  better  for  us  both 
to  say  out  all  that  is  in  our  hearts,  and  then  to  let  the 
matter  rest." 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  recommenced  in  a  lower  and 
more  tender  voice  :  — 


332  THE    FIRST    CHANCE. 

" 1  am  so  sorry,  Karl,  to  give  you  pain  !  If  the  only 
trouble  was  that  I  don't  want  to  marry  yc  u,  I  wouldn't 
mind  saying  yes  ;  for  I  love  you  very  much  :  only  I  don't 
believe  it  is  the  way  girls  commonly  love  the  men  they 
marry.  But  it  wouldn't  be  right." 

"  Not  right !      Oh  !  why  not  right,  Dora  ?  " 

u  Because  it  would  spoil  both  of  us.  You  ask  me  to 
make  any  thing  of  you  I  like  ;  but  that  is  not  the  way.  It 
is  you  yourself  that  must  make  a  man  of  yourself.  If 
I  should  try  to  do  it,  I  should  only  make  a  puppet  of  you, 
and  a  conceited,  tyrannical  woman  of  myself.  It  would 
Dot  be  good  for  me  to  rule  as  you  want  me  to  do  ;  and 
surely  no  man  would  deliberately  say  it  would  be  good  for 
him  to  be  ruled,  and  that  by  his  wife." 

There  was  a  touch  of  scorn  in  the  tone  of  the  last  words  ; 
and  Karl's  cheek  flushed  hotly,  as  he  said,  — 

"  It's  hard  that  you  should  despise  me  for  loving  you  so 
well  that  I  am  ready  to  forget  pride  and  manly  dignity, 
and  every  thing  else,  for  the  sake  of  it." 

"No;  but,  Karl,  don't  you  see  yourself  what  an  injury 
such  a  lore  must  be  to  you?  Forget  pride  and  manly 
dignity  and  self-respect  do  you  say?  A  true  love,  a  good 
love,  would  make  you  cherish  them  as  you  never  did  before  ; 


THE    FIRST    CHANCE.  SJf8 

would  make  you  claim  and  hold  every  inch  of  manhood  that 
is  in  you,  so  that  you  might  feel  yourself  worthy  of  that  love. 
O  Karl !  never  again  offer  to  put  yourself  under  the  foot 
of  any  woman,  but  wait  till  you  meet  one  whom  you  can 
hold  by  the  hand,  and  lead  along,  keeping  equal  step  with 
yourself,  and  both  pressing  forward  to  a  common  goal." 

She  turned  her  face  upon  him,  all  aglow  with  a  noble 
enthusiasm  far  above  the  maiden  bashfulness  that  but  now 
had  held  it  averted,  and  extended  her  hand,  saying,  — 

"  Come,  dear  Karl,  forget  this  idle  dream.  Be  once 
more  my  brother  and  my  helper.  Trust  me,  no  one  cares 
more  for  you  so  than  I ;  not  Kitty  herself." 

He  took  the  hand,  put  it  to  his  lips,  then  rode  on  silently. 

Dora's  kind  eyes  sought  his  again  and  again,  but  vainly. 
His  face,  pale  and  somewhat  stern,  gave  no  clew  to  the 
feelings  within  :  the  mouth,  more  firmly  set  than  its  wont, 
seemed  sealed  to  love  forever. 

For  the  first  time  in  all  the  interview,  Dora  found  her 
self  troubled  and  perplexed.  Here  was  nothing  to  soothe, 
nothing  to  combat,  nothing  to  answer  or  to  silence  ;  and  her 
womanly  sympathies  fluttered  about  this  manly  reticence 
like  a  humming-bird  around  a  flower  frozen  into  the  heart 
of  an  iceberg. 


00  1  THE    FIRST    CHANCE. 

At  last,  she  spoke ;  and  her  voice  had  grown  almost 
caressing  in  its  softness  :  - — 

"You're  not  angry  with  me,  Karl?" 

He  glanced  at  her,  then  away. 

"  Certainly  not,  Dora.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  much 
obliged  to  you." 

"  Obliged  to  me  ! "  exclaimed  Dora,  her  feminine  pique 
just  touched  a  trifle.  "  What,  for  saying  no?" 

"  For  showing  me  that  I  am  a  fool.  It  was  time  I 
knew  it,  and  I  had  rather  hear  it  from  you  than  any  one. 
Why  should  you  care  for  me?  I  am  not  a  man  to  respect, 
like  Mr.  Brown,  or  one  to  admire,  like  Mr.  Burroughs,  — 

1  suppose  it  will  be  one  of  them ;  but  I  only  hope  either  one 
may  give  you  half —     No  matter,  wait  here  a  moment  in 
the  shade.     I  am  going  back  to  speak  to  Kitty." 

He  sharply  wheeled  his  horse  as  he  spoke,  and  was  gone. 
Dora  looked  after  him  in  sorrowful  perplexity,  and  then 
tears  gathered  in  her  eyes  ;  but,  before  they  could  fall,  the 
unswerving  rectitude  underlying  her  whole  nature  came 
to  its  relief,  and  she  dashed  them  away,  murmuring, — 

"  But  I  was  right." 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

THE    SECOND    CHANCE. 

REINING  up  her  horse  under  the  shadow  of  a  clump  of 
trees,  Dora  waited,  as  her  cousin  had  requested,  for  his 
return  ;  and  so  much  pre-occupied  was  she  with  her  own 
thoughts,  that  she  failed  to  hear  the  quick  footfalls  of  an 
approaching  horse,  until  his  rider  slackened  speed  beside 
her,  and  Dora,  looking  up,  saw  that  it  was  Mr.  Brown. 

She  grew  a  little  pale,  divining,  not  only  from  the  presence 
of  the  chaplain,  but  from  a  joyous  and  significant  light  in  the 
eyes  that  encountered  hers,  what  might  be  his  errand  ;  and 
though  she  had  not  failed  to  foresee  this  moment,  no  man, 
and  surely  no  woman,  is  ever  so  prepared  for  the  great 
crises  of  life  that  they  fail  to  come  at  the  last  with  almost  as 
much  of  a  shock  as  if  they  came  quite  unawares. 

She  turned  her  horse  into  the  track,  and  rode  on,  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  wide  prairie-view,  which  seemed  to  dance 
and  shimmer  before  them  as  if  all  Nature  had  suddenly 
grown  as  strange  and  unreal  as  she  felt  herself. 


336  THE    SECOND    CHANCE. 

Her  companion  spoke,  and  in  her  ears  his  voice  sounded 
as  from  some  far  mountain-cave,  hollow,  broken,  and  vague  ; 
and  yet  the  words  were  far  fronrfiaomentous. 

u  Dora,  I  must  leave  you  to-morrow.'* 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  sir,"  faltered  Dora ;  and  Mr.  Brown, 
glancing  at  her  face,  could  not  but  notice  its  unwonted 
agitation.  His  own  wishes,  and  his  sex,  led  him  to  miscon 
strue  it ;  and,  pressing  his  horse  closer  to  her  side,  he  said 
joyfully,— 

"  And  so  am  I  sorry,  Dora  ;  but  I  need  not  be  gone  long 
if  you  wish  for  my  return." 

Dora  did  not  speak  ;  indeed,  she  could  not :  for  the  wild 
dance  of  sky  and  plain,  of  prairie  and  forest,  grew  yet 
wilder ;  and  in  her  ears  the  voice  of  the  chaplain  mingled 
with  a  dizzy  hum  that  almost  drowned  the  words.  She 
grasped  the  horn  of  her  saddle  with  both  hands,  and  only 
thought  of  saving  herself  from  falling.  The  horse  was 
halted,  an  arm  was  about  her  waist,  her  head  drawn  to  a 
resting-place  upon  a  steady  shoulder ;  and  that  strange,  far- 
off  voice  murmured, — 

"  My  darling,  my  long-loved,  long-sought  treasure,  calm 
yourself;  be  happy  and  secure  in  my  love.  Did  you  ever 
doubt  that  it  was  yours  ?  " 


THE    SECOND    CHANCE.  337 

He  stooped  to  kiss  her :  but,  at  the  motion,  the  virginal 
instincts  of  the  young  girl's  nature  rallied  to  the  defence ; 
.and,  with  a  sudden  spring,  Dora  sat  upright,  her  face  very 
pale,  but  her  eyes  clear  and  steadfast  as  their  wont. 

"  Oh,  sir.  indeed  you  must  not !  "  cried  she,  as  pleadingly 
as  a  little  child,  who  will  not  be  caressed,  yet  knows  not 
why  he  should  refuse. 

u  Must  not.  Dora?"  persisted  the  lover  gayly.  "  But  why 
must  I  not  kiss  my  own  betrothed?" 

"  But  I  am  not ;  I  cannot  be.  Don't  be  angry,  sir :  I 
would  have  spoken  sooner ;  but  I  could  not.  I  believe  I 
was  a  little  faint ; "  and  Dora's  eyes  timidly  sought  those 
of  the  chaplain,  who,  meeting  them,  remembered  many  such 
a  glance  when  his  pupil  had  feared  to  displease  him  by 
inattention  or  disobedience.  Again  he  thought  to  have 
discovered  the  source  of  her  refusal,  and  again  he  failed. 

"  Dora,"  said  he  gently,  "  you  do  not  forget,  that,  some 
yej'.rs  ago,  we  bore  the  relation  of  master  and  pupil ;  and 
you  still  regard  me  with  a  certain  deference  and  reserve, 
which,  perhaps,  blinds  you  to  the  true  relation  existing 
between  us  now.  Remember,  dear,  that  I  am  yet  a  young 
man ;  and  although  my  profession  may  have  induced  a 
certain  gravity  of  manner,  contrasting,  perhaps  unpleasantly, 


338  THE    SECOND    CHANCE. 

with  your  gay  cousin's  joyous  demeanor,  I  have  all,  or  more 
than  all,  of  his  fervency  of  feeling ;  far  more,  I  trust,  ol 
depth  and  steadfastness  in  my  love  for  you." 

"  Please,  Mr.  Brown,"  interposed  Dora,  "  do  not  let  us 
say  any  thing  about  Karl.  He  is  not  concerned  in  this.*' 

"  You  are  right,  Dora,  and  I  was  wrong,"  said  Mr. 
Brown  with  a  little  effort  of  magnanimity.  "  But  I  was 
only  trying  to  convince  you  that  my  love  is  quite  as  ardent, 
and  quite  as  tender,  as  that  of  a  younger  and  gayer  man 
could  be." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Dora  timidly,  as  he  paused  for  her 
assent. 

"  Not  '  Yes,  sir,'  child  !  "  exclaimed  the  chaplain  impa 
tiently.  "  Don't  treat  me  with  this  distant  respect  and 
timid  reverence.  I  am  your  lover,  your  would-be  comrade 
through  life,  as  once  through  the  less  earnest  battles  of 
war.  Call  me  Frank,  and  look  into  my  face  and  smile  aa 
I  have  seen  you  smile  on  Karl." 

A  quick  smile  dimpled  Dora's  cheek,  and  passed. 

"  Not  Karl,  please,  sir." 

"  Dora,  if  you  say  '  sir'  to  me  again,  I'll  kiss  you." 

'*  Please  not,  Mr.  Brown,"  said  Dora  demurely,  "  until 
you  quite  understand  me." 


THE    SECOND    CHANCE.  339 

"  Well,  then,  let  me  quite  understand  you  very  quick  ;  for 
I  think  I  shall  exact  the  penalty,  even  without  farther 
offence/' 

"  But  I  cannot  promise,  —  I  cannot  be  what  you  said," 
stammered  Dora,  half  terrified,  half  confused. 

"  Nay,  darling,  —  I  am  going  to  always  call  you  that, 
as  expressive  both  of  name  and  nature,  —  it  is  you  who  do  not 
quite  understand  either  yourself  or  me.  I  do  riot  expect,  or 
even  wish,  you  to  profess  a  love  for  me  as  ardent,  open, 
and  pronounced  as  my  own  :  that  were  to  make  you  other 
than  the  modest  and  delicately  reserved  maiden  I  have 
loved  so  long.  All  I  ask  you  to  feel  is,  that  you  can  trust 
yourself  to  my  guidance  through  life  ;  that  you  can  place 
your  future  in  my  hands,  believing  me  capable  of  shaping 
it  aright ;  that  you  can  promise  to  tread  with  me  the  path 
I  have  selected,  sure  that  it  shall  be  my  care  to  remove 
from  it  all  thorns,  all  obstacles  that  mortal  power  may 
control,  and  that  my  arms  shall  bear  you  tenderly  over  the 
rough  places  I  cannot  make  smooth  for  you. 

u  Dora,  years  ago  I  resolved  that  you  should  be  my  wife, 
God  and  you  consenting.  I  have  waited  until  I  thought 
you  old  enough  to  decide  calmly  and  wisely ;  but,  through 
these  years  of  waiting,  I  have  cherished  a  hope,  almost  a 


310  THE    SECOND    CHANCE. 

certainty,  of  success,  that  has  struck  deep  roots  among  the 
very  foundations  of  my  life.  You  will  not  tear  it  away ! 
Dora,  you  do  not  know  me :  you  cannot  guess  at  the 
ardor  or  the  power  of  a  love  I  have  never  dared  wholly  to 
reveal  even  to  myself.  Trust  it,  Dora  :  it  cannot  but  make 
you  happy.  Give  yourself  to  me,  dear  child ;  and  I  will 
account  to  God  for  the  precious  charge." 

Never  man  was  more  in  earnest,  never  was  wooing  at 
once  so  fervent  and  so  lofty  in  its  tone  ;  and  so  Dora  felt  it. 
The  temptation  to  yield,  without  further  struggle,  to  the 
belief  that  Mr.  Brown  knew  better  what  was  good  for  her 
than  she  knew  for  herself,  was  very  great ;  but,  even  while 
she  hesitated,  the  inherent  truthfulness  of  her  nature  rose 
up,  and  cried,  u  No,  no !  you  shall  not  do  such  wrong  to 
me  who  am  the  Eight ! "  and  turning,  with  an  effort,  to 
meet  the  keen  eyes  reading  her  face,  she  said,  still  timidly 
perhaps,  but  very  calmly,  — 

"  I  am  but  a  simple  girl,  almost  a  child  in  some  things, 
and  you  are  a  wise  and  good  man,  learned  in  books  and  in 
the  way  of  the  world  ;  but  I  must  judge  for  myself,  and 
must  believe  my  own  heart  sooner  than  you  in  such  matters 
as  these.  Years  ago,  as  you  say,  I  was  your  pupil,  and 
you  then  nobly  offered  to  adopt  me  as  your  child  or  sister." 


THE    SECOND    CHANCE.  341 

•'  As  my  future  wife,  Dora.  I  meant  it  from  the  very 
first,"  interposed  the  chaplain  impetuously. 

UI  did  not  know  that :  perhaps  it  makes  a  difference 
But,  at  any  rate,  I  promised  then,  that  if  I  went  home  with 
Capt.  Karl,  and  you  wanted  me  afterward,  I  would  comt 
to  you  whenever  you  said  so." 

"Yes,  yes;  that  is  quite  true:  well?"  demanded  Mr. 
Brown  eagerly. 

"  Well,  sir,  a  promise  is  a  promise  ;  and,  if  you  demand 
it  now,  I  will  come  and  live  with  you,  or  you  can  come  and 
live  with  me,  —  not  as  your  wife,  however,  but  as  your  sister 
and  child  and  friend." 

"  You  will  come  and  live  with  me,  but  not  marry  me  !  " 
exclaimed  the  young  man,  with  a  gleam  of  amusement  at 
the  unworldly  proposal  lighting  his  dark  eyes. 

u  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Dora,  without  looking  up. 

To  her  infinite  astonishment  and  dismay,  she  found  her 
self  suddenly  embraced,  and  a  hearty  kiss  tingling  upon  her 
lips. 

"  I  am  sorry  if  you  don't  like  it,  Dora  ;  but  I  said  I 
would  if  you  called  me  '  sir '  a.gain  ;  and  you  are  so  scrupu 
lous  about  your  promises,  you  cannot  wish  me  to  break 
mine." 


342  THE    SECOND    CHANCE. 

"  Then  I  am  afraid  I  must  promise,  if  you  do  so  again, 
to  go  back  and  ride  with  Kitty  all  the  rest  of  the  way," 
said  Dora,  as,  with  heightened  color  and  a  decided  pout, 
she  drew  her  left-hand  rein  so  sharply  as  to  wheel  Max  to 
the  other  side  of  the  road. 

"  Dora,  I  am  afraid  you  are  a  little  of  a  coquette,  after 
all !  "  exclaimed  the  lover,  gazing  at  her  with  admiration. 

"  Oh,  no  indeed,  Mr.  Brown !  I  wouldn't  be  for  the 
world  !  I  said  just  what  I  meant  to  you.  I  always  do." 

"  But  why,  then,  if  you  love  me  well  enough  to  live  with 
me  as  sister,  child,  or  friend,  can't  you  also  live  with  me  as 
wife?" 

"Because,  sir, — oh,  no!  I  didn't  mean  sir,  —  be 
cause  "  — 

u  Frank,  I  told  you  to  call  me." 

"  Because,  Frank,  I  don't  love  you  that  way." 

The  answer  was  so  explicit,  so  unembarrassed,  and  so 
quiet,  that,  for  the  first  time,  Mr.  Brown  believed  it. 

"  Not  love  me,  Dora,  when  I  love  you  so  much !  "  ex- 
ilaimed  he  in  dismay. 

"  Not  love  you  in  a  wife  way,  Frank,  but  a  great  deal  in 
every  other  way.  And  then  I  don't  think*  we  should  be 
happy  together  if  we  were  married." 


THE    SECOND    CHANCE.  343 

u  And  why  not?"  asked  the  young  man,  smi/ing  in  spite 
of  himself  at  the  quiet  opinion. 

"  Because,  as  you  said,  you  want  me  to  put  my  life  into 
your  hands,  and  you  will  shape  it ;  and  you  want  me  to  set 
my  feet  in  your  path,  and  follow  it  with  you  ;  and  you  want 
me  to  trust  my  soul  to  you,  and  you  will  guide  it :  but  I 
could  never  do  that,  Mr.  Brown  ;  never  for  any  man,  I  think. 
I  could  never  forget  that  God  has  given  me  a  life,  and  a 
path,  and  a  soul,  all  my  own,  and  not  to  be  judged  except 
by  Him  and  myself:  and  I  am  afraid  I  should  always  be 
asking  if  your  guiding  was  in  the  same  direction  that  I  was 
meant  to  go  ;  and,  if  I  thought  it  was  not,  I  should  be  very 
unhappy,  and  should  try  to  live  my  own  life,  and  not  yours ; 
and  that  would  make  trouble." 

"  Yes,  that  would  make  trouble  certainly,  Dora,"  said 
the  chaplain  gravely.  "  But  are  you  sure  that  a  young 
and  comparatively  unlearned  woman  like  yourself  would 
be  a  better  judge  of  what  was  right  and  best  than  a  ma  a 
of  mature  years,  who  has  made  the  care  of  souls  his  pro 
fession  and  most  earnest  duty  ?  " 

"  No,  Mr.  Brown,  not  if  I  judged  for  myself:  hut  I  think 
God  has  especial  care  of  those,  who,  like  me,  have  none 
else  to  guide  them  ;  and  I  think  this  voice  in  my  heart  is 
the  surest  teaching  of  all." 


344  THE    SECOND    CHANCE. 

The  profound  conviction  of  her  tone  was  final ;  the 
simple  faith  of  her  argument  was  unassailable :  and  Mr. 
Brown,  skilful  polemic  that  he  was,  found  himself  silenced. 

After  a  moment,  he  said  calmly,  — 

"  Dora,  you  will  not  forget  that  this  is,  to  me  at  least,  a 
very  serious,  indeed  a  vital  matter.  Is  what  you  have  just 
said  the  solemn  conviction  of  your  own  heart?  or  have  you 
suffered  yourself  to  be  misled  by  the  tendency  to  self-esteem 
and  perverseness  I  have  sometimes  had  occasion  to  reprove 
in  you?  Have  you  thoroughly  searched  your  own  heart  to 
its  deepest  depths  ?  and  is  not  your  refusal  tinctured  by  the 
natural  reluctance  of  a  determined  nature  to  yield  to  a  love, 
which,  in  woman,  must  bring  with  it  some  degree  of  depend 
ence  and  deference  ?  " 

He  looked  almost  severely  into  the  pale  face  and  earnest 
eyes  upraised  to  his,  and  read  there  pain,  anxiety,  an 
humble  appeal,  but  not  one  trace  of  hesitation,  not  one 
shade  of  duplicity. 

"  I  have  searched  my  own  heart,  Mr.  Brown  ;  and  I  am 
sure  of  its  answer.  I  never,  never,  can  be  your  wife,  so 
long  as  we  both  live." 

44  That  is  sufficient,  Dora.  I  am  rightly  punished  for 
building  my  hopes  and  my  happiness  upon  the  sandy  foun- 


THE    SECOND    CHANCE.  345 

dations  of  an  earthly  love.  They  perish,  and  leave  me 
desolate  ;  but,  among  the  ruins,  I  yet  can  say,  '  It  is  rightly 
and  justly  done.'" 

The  bitter  pain  in  his  voice  pierced  to  Dora's  very  heart, 
and  wounded  it  almost  as  sorely  as  she  had  wounded  his. 
The  rare  tears  overflowed  her  eyes  ;  and,  pressing  close  to 
his  side,  she  laid  a  hand  upon  his  own,  saying,  — 

"Oh,  forgive  me! — say  you  forgive  me!  Indeed,  I 
must  do  and  say  what  conscience  bids  me,  at  all  cost." 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  gainsay  such  a  precept  as  that,"  said 
the  chaplain. 

"  But  I  will  come  to  you,  and  live  as  long  as  you  want 
me.  I  will  be  every  thing  but  wife.  Say  I  may  do  this, 
or  I  shall  never  forgive  myself.  Say  I  may  make  some 
amends  for  the  pain  I  have  given  you." 

The  young  man  laughed  bitterly,  then,  turning  suddenly, 

• 

seized  both  her  hands,  and  looked  deep  into  her  eyes. 

"My  poor  child,"  cried  he,  "my  innocent  lamb,  who 
turns  from  the  shepherd  because  she  will  not  be  guided, 
and  yet  is  all  unfit  to  guide  herself!  Do  not  even  you, 
Dora,  guileless  and  unworldly  as  you  are^  see  how  impossi 
ble  it  would  be  for  a  young  and  beautiful  girl  to  live  with 
a  man  who  admires  and  loves  her  openly,  without  such 


346  THE    SECOND    CHANCE. 

scandal  as  should  ruin  both   in   the  world's  eyes,  even  if 
they  saved  their  own  souls  unspotted?" 

Dora    snatched    away   her    hands,   and    her   whole    face 
flamed  with  a  sudden  shame. 

She  was  learning   fast   to-day  in   the   book   of  human 
passion,   suffering,  and  sin. 

Without  comment  upon  her  embarrassment,  the  chaplain 
went  on  :  — 

"  No,  Dora  :  I  must  lay  aside  the  dream  of  four  sweet 
years,  and  take  up  my  lonely  life  without  disguise  or 
embellishment.  I  cannot  dispute  your  decision.  I  will 
not  by  one  word  or  look  urge  you  to  change  it ;  for  I  too 
deeply  respect  the  truthfulness  of  your  character  to  dream 
that  it  is  capable  of  change.  I  do  not  say  that  I  forgive 
you,  for  you  have  done  nothing  calling  for  forgiveness  ;  and 
yet,  if  your  tender  heart  should  suffer  in  thinking  of  my 
suffering,  remember  always  that  what  you  have  to-day 
said  has  increased  my  respect  and  esteem  for  you  fourfold  : 
ami;  if  it  has  also  added  to  the  bitterness  of  my  disappoint 
ment,  I  will  not  have  you  reproach  yourself;  for  I  would 
rather  reverence  you  as  the  wife  of  another  than  to  claim 
you  as  my  own,  and  know  you  untrue  to  yourself.  And 
now,  dear,  the  subject  is  closed  utterly  and  forever." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

TREASURE-TROVE. 

IT  was  a  balmy  September  evening,  some  weeks  after 
Mr.  Brown's  return  to  Ohio,  when  Karl,  or,  as  he  was 
now  generally  styled,  Dr.  Windsor,  standing  beside  his 
horse,  in  the  quiet  Main  Street  of  Greenfield,  saw  Dr. 
Gershom  riding  lazily  into  town,  accompanied  by  a  sturdy, 
good-looking  lad,  also  on  horseback,  whom  Karl  failed  to 
recognize. 

"  A  new  student,  maybe,"  thought  he,  and,  taking  his 
foot  out  of  the  stirrup,  waited  to  see. 

"  Hollo,  Windsor,  hold  on  a  minute  !  "  shouted  Dr.  Ger- 
shom  as  they  approached.  u  Here's  a  young  gentleman 
asking  for  you." 

Karl  bowed,  and  began  hastily  to  review  his  half-for 
gotten  army  acquaintances ;  failing,  however,  to  identify 
any  of  them  with  the  young  man  now  bowing  to  him,  and 
taking  a  letter  from  his  pocket-book. 

347 


348  TREASURE-TROVE. 

"  Mr.  Brown  favored  me  with  this  letter  of  introduction 
to  you,  sir,"  said  he,  holding  it  out. 

Karl  glanced  hastily  at  the  few  lines,  and  remembered 
an  allusion  the  chaplain  had  made  to  a  particularly  promis 
ing  student  of  his,  whom  he  thought  of  sending  to  travel  a 
little  in  the  West.  So  he  frankly  smiled,  extended  his 
hand,  and  said, — 

"  Ah,  yes !  I  have  heard  Mr.  Brown  speak  of  you,  Mr. 
Ginniss  ;  and  I  am  very  happy  to  welcome  you  to  our  prairie 
life.  I  am  just  setting  out  for  home  ;  and,  if  you  please,  we 
will  ride  along  directly." 

"  Better  come  in,  boys,  and  have  a  glass  of  bitters  to  keep 
the  night-air  off  your  stomachs.  Got  some  of  the  real  stuff 
right  hero  in  the  office,"  said  the  old  doctor  ;  but,  both  young 
men  declining  the  proffered  hospitality,  he  withdrew,  grum 
bling,  — 

"  You  never'll  make  it  work,  Windsor,  I  tell  you  now ! 
Such  a  dog's  life  as  a  country  doctor's  isn't  to  be  kept  up 
without  fuel." 

Karl  laughed,  and,  turning  to  his  new  acquaintance, 
said,  — 

"  So  they  told  me  in  the  army  ;  but  I  got  through  without. 
I  never  tasted  spirit  but  once,  and  then  I  didn't  like  it." 


TREASURE-TROVE.  349 

41  I  never  have  at  all,"  said  G-inniss  simply.  "  I  gave  my 
mother  a  promise,  when  I  was  twelve  years  old,  that  I  never 
,vould  ;  and  I  never  have." 

Karl  nodded. 

"  That's  right,"  said  he ;  "  and  all  the  better  for  you  to 
have  had  such  a  mother." 

"  You'd  say  that,  Mr.  Windsor,  if  you  knew  what  she'd 
done  for  me.  There  ain't  many  such  mothers  in  any  class," 
said  the  young  man  heartily. 

Karl  looked  at  his  new  acquaintance  with  increasing 
favor,  and  found  something  very  attractive  in  his  open, 
manly  face,  and  the  honest  smile  with  which  he  met  his 
scrutiny. 

"  I  hope  you'll  stay  with  us  some  time,  Mr.  Ginniss,"  said 
he  heartily. 

"  Thank  you  ;  but,  I  believe,  only  for  one  day.  The  journey 
was  my  principal  object  in  coming  ;  and  I  must  be  at  Antioch 
College  again  in  a  week,  or  ten  days  at  the  outside." 

"  Tell  me  about  the  life  there.  I  was  at  old  Harvard, 
and  never  visited  any  other  college,"  said  Karl ;  and  the 
young  men  found  plenty  of  conversation,  until,  in  the  soft 
twilight,  they  came  upou  the  pleasant  slope  and  vine-clad 
buildings  of  Outpost. 


350  TREASURE-TROVE. 

"  Here  is  our  house,  or  rather  my  cousin's  house,"  said 
Karl.  "  You  have  heard  Mr.  Brown  speak  of  Dora?  " 

"  Yes,  before  he  went  away,"  said  Ginniss  significantly. 

"  But  not  since  his  return?"  asked  Karl  eagerly. 

"  Very  seldom." 

"  Hem  !  Seth,  will  you  take  our  horses  round  ?  Jump 
off,  and  come  in,  sir.  This  is  my  sister  Kitty,  Mr.  Ginniss. 
A  scholar  of  Mr.  Brown's,  Kitty  :  I  dare  say  you  remember 
his  speaking  of  him." 

"  Yes,  indeed  !  Very  happy  to  see  you,  Mr.  Ginniss  ;  walk 
in,"  said  Kitty,  who,  if  she  had  never  heard  the  line,  cer 
tainly  knew  how  to  apply  the  idea,  of,  — 

"  It  is  not  the  rose;  but  it  has  lived  near  the  rose." 

"  Where  is  Dora?"  asked  Karl,  glancing  round  the  room 
where  the  pretty  tea-table  stood  spread,  and  Dora's  hat  and 
gloves  lay  upon  a  chair ;  but  no  other  sign  of  her  presence 
was  to  be  found. 

"  Why,"  said  Kitty,  laughing  a  little,  "  Dolly  took  a  fancy 
for  rafting  down  the  river  on  a  log  that  she  somehow  man 
aged  to  push  off  from  the  bank.  Of  course,  she  slipped  off 
the  first  thing,  and  might  have  been  drowned  ;  but  Argus  got 
her  out  somehow,  and  Seth,  hearing  the  noise,  ran  down  and 


TREASURE-TKOVE.  351 

brought  her  home.  Of  course,  she  was  dripping  wet ;  and 
Dora  has  put  her  to  bed." 

"  Is  it  a  sanitary  or  a  disciplinary  measure?"  asked  Karl  : 
"  because,  if  the  latter,  we  shall  have  Dora  out  of  spirits  all 
the  evening.  She  never  punishes  Dolce  half  so  much  as  she 
does  herself." 

"  Well,  I  believe  it  is  a  little  of  both  this  time,"  replied 
Kitty.  "  I  think  she'll  be  down  to  tea.  You  had  better  take 
Mr.  Giniiiss  right  into  your  bedroom,  Charlie.  Perhaps 
he'd  like  to  wash  his  hands  before  tea." 

"  Thank  you ;  I  should,  if  you  please,"  said  the  guest, 
and  left  the  room  with  his  host. 

When  they  returned,  Dora  was  waiting  to  receive  them, 
somewhat  pale  and  sad  at  having  felt  obliged  to  refuse  Sun 
shine's  entreaties  to  "  get  up,  and  be  the  'bedieutest  little 
girl  that  ever  was,"  but  courteously  attentive  to  the  guest, 
and  ready  to  be  interested  and  sympathetic  in  hearing  ail 
Karl's  little  experiences  of  the  day.  As  for  Kitty,  her  care 
less  inquiry  on  seating  herself  at  the  table,  of,  — 

"How  has  Mr.  Brown  been  since  he  got  home?"  may 
serve  as  index  to  the  course  of  her  meditations. 

"  How  in  the  world  came  Dolce  to  undertake  the  rafting 
business  ?  "  asked  Karl,  when  his  sister's  inquiries  had  been 
amply  satisiied. 


352  TREASURE-TROVE. 

"  Why,  poor  little  thing !  "  said  Dora,  laughing  a  little, 
"  she  thought  she  had  found  the  way  to  heaven.  She 
noticed  from  the  window  how  very  blue  the  river  was,  and, 
as  she  says,  '  goldy  all  over  in  spots  : '  so  she  slipped  out,  and 
ran  down  there,  forgetting  for  once  that  she  is  forbidden  to 
do  so.  Standing  on  the  brink,  she  saw  the  reflection  of  the 
little  white  clouds  floating  overhead,  and  was  suddenly  pos 
sessed  with  an  idea  that  this  was  heaven,  or  the  entrance  to 
it.  So,  as  she  told  me,  she  thought  she  would  float  out  on 
the  log  till  she  got  to  the  middle,  and  then  '  slip  off,  and 
fall  right  into  heaven.'  " 

"  How  absurd  !  "  said  Kitty,  laughing. 

"  Not  at  all.  She  would  certainly  have  reached  heaven 
if  she  had  carried  out  the  plan,"  said  Karl. 

"Don't,  please,"  murmured  Dora,  with  a  little  shiver. 
"  Don't  talk  of  it." 

"  That  is  like  a  little  sister  of  mine  ;  a  little  adopted  sis 
ter,  at  least.  She  was  always  talking  of  going  to  heaven, 
and  planning  to  get  there,"  said  the  guest. 

Dora  looked  at  him  with  pity  in  her  honest  eyes,  and 
hastened  to  prevent  Kitty's  evident  intention  of  questioning 
him  further  with  regard  to  this  "little  sister." 

"  It  seems  to  be  a  natural  instinct  with  children,"  said 


TREASURE-TROVE.  353 

she,  "  to  long  for  heaven.     Perhaps  that  is  the  reason  they 
bring  so  much  of  heaven  to  earth." 

u  I'm  afraid  mothers  of  large  and  troublesome  families 
would  say  that  earth  would  be  better  with  less  of  heaven," 
suggested  Karl  slyly  ;  and  the  conversation  suddenly  veered 
to  other  topics.  But  all  through  the  evening,  and  even  after 
he  had  gone  to  rest,  the  mind  of  Teddy  Glnniss  was  haunted 
by  the  memory  of  the  pretty  child,  so  loved  and  mourned 
and  of  whom  this  anecdote  of  the  little  heaven-seeker  sc 
forcibly  reminded  him. 

"Whose  child  is  this,  I  wonder?"  thought  he  a  dozen 
times :  but,  in  the  hints  he  had  solicited  from  Mr.  Brown 
upon  manners,  none  had  been  more  urgent  than  that  forbid 
ding  inquisition  into  other  people's  affairs  ;  and  indeed  Ted 
dy's  natural  tact  and  refinement  would  have  prevented  his 
erring  in  this  respect.  So  now  he  held  his  peace,  and  slept 
unsatisfied. 

This  may  have  been  the  reason  of  his  rising  unusuallv 
early,  —  in  fact,  while  the  rosy  clouds  of  dawn  were  yet  in 
the  sky,  —  and  quietly  leaving  the  house  with  the  purpose  of 
a  river-bath.  Strolling  some  distance  down  the  bank,  until 
the  intervening  trees  shut  off  the  house,  he  plunged  in,  and 
found  himself  much  refreshed  by  a  swim  of  ten  minutes 
23 


354  TREASURE-TROVE. 

through  waters  gorgeous  with  the  colors  of  the  sunrise-skj  ; 
and,  as  he  paused  to  notice  them,  Teddy  muttered,  — 

"  The  poor  little  sister  !  She'd  have  done  just  the  same 
if  sho'd  been  here." 

It  was  hardly  time  to  return  to  the  house  when  the  young 
man  stood  again  upon  the  bank ;  and  he  strolled  on  through 
the  wood,  at  this  point  touching  upon  the  river  so  closely, 
that  a  broken  reflection  of  the  green  foliage  curved  and 
shimmered  along  the  fast-flowing  waves. 

Teddy  looked  at  the  water ;  he  looked  at  the  trees  ;  he 
looked  long  and  eagerly  across  the  wide  prairie  that  far 
westward  imperceptibly  melted  its  "dim  green  into  the  faint 
blue  of  the  horizon,  leaving  between  the  two  a  belt  of  ten 
der  color,  nameless,  but  inexpressibly  tempting  and  sug 
gestive  to  the  eye.  All  this  the  lad  saw,  and,  raising  his 
face  skyward,  drew  in  a  long  draught  of  such  air  as  never 
reaches  beyond  the  prairies. 

"Oh,  but  it's  good!"  exclaimed  he,  with  more  meaning 
to  the  simple  phrase  than  many  a  man  has  put  to  an  ora 
tion.  And  then  he  muttered,  as  he  walked  on,  — 

"  If  it  wasn't  for  the  thought  that's  always  lying  like  a 
stone  at  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  there'd  not  be  a  happier 
fellow  alive  to-day  than  I.  Oh  the  little  sister  !  — the  little 


TREASURE-TROVE.  OOJ 

sister  that  I  never  shall  forget,  nor  forgive  myself  for  the 
loss  of!" 

And,  from  the  cottonwood  above  his  head,  a  mocking 
bird,  who  had  perhaps  caught  the  trick  of  grief  from  some 
neighbor  whippoorwill,  poured  suddenly  a  flood  of  plaintive 
melody,  that  to  the  boy's  warm  Irish  fancy  seemed  a  lament 
over  ihe  loved  and  lost. 

He  took  off  his  hat,  and  looked  up  into  the  tree. 

"  Heaven's  blessing  on  you,  birdy  !  "  said  he.  u  It's  the 
very  way  I'd  have  said  it  myself;  but  I  didn't  know 
how." 

The  mocking-bird  flew  on  ;  and  Teddy  followed,  .hoping 
for  a  repetition  of  the  strain  :  but  the  capricious  little  song 
ster  only  twittered  promises  of  a  coming  happiness  greater 
than  any  pleasure  his  best  efforts  could  afford,  and  darted 
away  to  the  recesses  of  J;he  forest,  where  was  in  progress 
an  Art-Union  matinee  of  such  music  as  all  the  wealth  of  all 
our  cities  cannot  buy  for  us. 

Teddy  followed  for  a  while ;  and  then,  fearing  that  he 
should  be  lost  in  the  trackless  wood,  turned  his  back  upon 
the  rising  sun,  and  walked,  as  he  supposed,  in  the  direction 
of  the  house,  his  eyes  upon  the  ground,  his  mind  strangely 
busy  with  thoughts  and  memories  of  the  life  he  had  left 


3;")  6  TREASURE-TROVE. 

so  far  behind,  that,  iii  the  press  and  hurry  of  his  present 
career,  it  sometimes  seemed  hardly  to  belong  to  him. 

"  God  and  my  lady  have  been  very  good  to  me,"  thought 
the  boy  ;  "  but  I  never'll  be  as  happy  again  as  when  the  little 
sister  put  her  arms  about  my  neck,  and  called  me  her  dear 
Teddy,  and  kissed  me  with  her  own  sweet  mouth  that  maybe 
is  dust  and  ashes  now.  No  :  I  never'll  be  happy  that  way 
again." 

lie  raised  his  eyes  as  he  spoke,  and  started  back,  pale  and 
trembling,  fain  to  lean  against  the  nearest  tree  for  support 
under  the  great  shock. 

Not  fifty  feet  from  him,  and  bathed  in  the  early  sunlight 
that  came  sifting  through  the  trees  to  greet  her,  stood  a  child, 
dressed  in  a  white  robe,  her  sunny  hair  crowned  with  flowers, 
her  little  hand  holding  sceptre-wise  a  long  stalk  with  snow- 
white  bells  drooping  from  its  under  edge.  Her  arms  were 
bare  to  the  shoulder,  and  her  slender  feet  gleamed  white  from 
the  bed  of  moss  that  almost  buried  them.  Still  as  a  little 
statue,  or  a  celestial  vision  printing  itself  in  one  never-to-be- 
forgotten  moment  upon  the  heart  of  the  beholder,  she  stood 
looking  at  him  ;  and  Teddy  dropped  upon  his  knees,  gasp 
ing,  — 

"  It's  out  of  glory  you've  come  to  comfort  me,  darling! 
and  God  ever  bless  you  for  the  same  !  " 


TREASURE-TROVE.  357 

The  child  looked  at  him  with  her  starry  eyes,  aod  slowly 
smiled. 

"  I  knew  you  sometime,"  said  she.     "  Was  it  in  heaven  ?" 

u  No  :  it's  better  than  ever  I'll  be,  you  know,  in  heaven, 
little  sister.  Are  you  happy  there,  mavourneen?"  asked 
Teddy  timidly. 

"  Oh  !  I  haven't  gone  to  heaven  yet.  I  never  could  find 
the  way,"  said  the  child,  with  a  troubled  expression  sud 
denly  clouding  her  sweet  face  ;  and  then  she  added  musing- 

iy,- 

"  I  thought  I'd  get  there  through  the  river  last  night ;  but 
I  tumbled  off  the  log,  and  only  got  wet :  and  Dora  said  I  was 
naughty ;  and  so  I  had  to  go  to  bed,  and  not  have  some 
supper,  only  "  — 

"  What's  that,  then  !  "  shouted  Teddy,  springing  to  his  feet, 
and  holding  out  his  hands  toward  her,  though  not  yet  daring 
to  approach.  "  It's  not  the  spirit  of  the  little  sister  you  are, 
but  alive  child?" 

"  Yes,  I'm  alive ;  though,  if  I'd  staid  into  the  river, 
I  wouldn't  have  been,  Dora  says,"  replied  Sunshine 
quietly. 

"  Oh  !  but  the  Lord  in  heaven  look  down  on  us  this  day, 
and  keep  me  from  going  downright  mad  with  the  joy  that's 


358  TREASURE-TROVE. 

breaking  my  heart !  Is  it  yourself  it  is,  O  little  sister  !  is 
it  yourself  that's  in  it,  and  I  alive  to  see  it?  " 

lie  was  at  her  feet  now,  his  white  face  all  bathed  with 
tears,  his  trembling  fingers  timidly  clasping  her  robe,  his 
eyes  raised  imploringly  to  those  serenely  bent  upon  him. 

"  I  knew  you  once,  and  you.  was  good  to  me,"  said  the 
child  musingly;  "but  I  got  tired  when  I  danced  so  much 
in  the  street.  I  don't  ever  dance  now,  only  with  Argus." 

"  But,  little  sister,  are  you  just  sure  it's  yourself  alive? 
And  don't  you  mind  I  was  Teddy,  and  we  used  to  go  walking 
in  the  Gardens  and  on  the  Commons  ;  and  there  was  the  good 
mammy  at  home  that  used  to  rock  you  on  her  lap,  and  warm 
the  pretty  little  feet  in  her  hands,  and  sing  to  you  till  you 
dropped  asleep  ?  Don't  you  mind  them  things,  Cherry  dar- 
ling?" 

Xhe  child  looked  attentively  in  his  face  while  he  thus  spoke, 
and  at  the  end  nodded  several  times  ;  while  a  light,  like  that 
of  earliest  dawn,  began  to  glimmer  in  her  eyes. 

"  Tell  me  some  more,"  said  she  briefly. 

"  And  do  you  mind  the  picture-books  I  used  to  bring  you 
home,  and  the  story  of  the  Cock  Robin  you  used  to  like  so 
well  to  hear,  and  the  skip-jack  you  played  with,  and  the  big 
doll  that  mammy  made  for  you,  and  you  called  it  Susan  ?  "  — 


TREASURE-TROVE.  359 

"  O h !  Susan  !  "  cried  the  child  suddenly,  and  then 

stood  all  pale  and  trembling,  while  her  earnest  eyes  seemed 
searching  in  the  past  for  some  dimly-remembered  secret, 
which  to  lose  was  agony,  to  recall  impossible. 

"  Susan  !  "  said  she  softly  again.  "  Yes,  there  was 
Susan,  somewhere,  and  —  Oh !  tell  me  the  rest ;  tell  me 
who  it  was  that  loved  me  so ! " 

"  Sure,  it  was  Teddy  loved  you  best  of  all,"  said  the  boy 
longingly  :  for,  though  her  eager  eyes  dwelt  upon  his  face,  it 
was  not  for  him  or  his  that  the  depths  of  her  heart  were 
stirring ;  and,  with  the  old  thrill  of  jealous  pain,  he  felt 
it  so. 

But  then  from  the  remorse  and  bitterness  of  the  fault  he 
had  never  ceased  to  mourn  rose  a  nobler  purpose,  a  higher 
love.  He  took  the  child  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  ten 
derly,  then  released  her,  saying,  — 

u  Good-by,  little  sister  ;  for  I  never  will  call  you  so  again, 
and  you  never  more  will  call  me  brother.  It's  your  own 
lady-mother,  darling,  that  you're  missing  and  mourning,  — 
the  own  beautiful  mother  that  lost  you  two  years  ago,  and 
has  gone  to  heaven's  gates  looking  for  you,  and  never  would 
have  come  back  if  you  had  not  been  found.  It's  your  own 
home,  darling,  that  you  have  remembered  for  heaven ;  and 


3GO  TREASURE-TROVE. 

it's  waiting  for  you,  with  father  and  mother,  and  joy  and 
plenty,  all  ready  to  receive  you  the  minute  you  can  get 
there." 

But  it  was  too  much  for  the  fine  organization  and  sensi 
tive  temperament ;  and,  as  Teddy's  words  reached  her  heart 
in  their  full  meaning,  the  child,  with  a*  long  sobbing  cry,  fell 
forward  into  his  arms,  utterly  insensible. 

Teddy,  not  too  much  terrified  (for  he  had  seen  her  thus 
before),  raised  the  slender  little  figure  in  his  arms,  and  car 
ried  it  swiftly  toward  the  house,  now  just  visible  through  a 
vista  of  the  wood,  but,  before  he  reached  it,  met  Dora 
coming  to  look  for  her  little  charge. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Ginniss.  So  you  have  caught  my 
naughty  runaway,"  cried  she  gayly  ;  but  coming  near 
enough  to  notice  Sunshine's  drooping  figure,  and  Teddy's 
agitated  face,  she  sprang  forward,  asking, — 

"  Is  any  thing  the  matter  with  her  ?  Where  did  you  find 
her,  Mr.  Ginniss?" 

"  She's  fainted,  ma'am ;  but  it's  with  joy,  and  will  never 
hurt  her.  It's  you  and  I  that  will  be  the  sufferers,  I'm 
afraid,"  said  Teddy,  with  a  sudden  pang  at  his  heart  of 
love  not  yet  cleansed  of  selfish  jealousy. 

"  Bring  her  to  the  house,  please,  as  quickly  as  you  can. 


TREASURE-TROVE.  fti)l 

Poor  little  darling,  she  is  so  delicate!"  said  Doia,  not  y°t 
caring  to  ask  this  strange  news,  but  walking  close  beside 
Teddy,  her  hand  clasping  that  cold  little  one  which  swung 
nervelessly  over  his  shoulder,  her  eyes  anxiously  watching 
the  beautiful  pale  face,  half  hidden  in  the  showering  curls. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

TEDDY'S  PRIVILEGE. 

To  Mr.  Burroughs,  smoking  his  cigar  upon  the  piazza 
of  the  Neff  House,  came  a  white-jacketed  waiter  with  a 
card. 

u  The  gentleman  is  waiting  in  the  reception-room,  sir," 
said  he. 

Mr.  Burroughs  paused  to  watch  an  unusually  perfect 
ring  of  smoke  lazily  floating  above  his  head  ;  then  took  the 
card,  and  read  in  pencil, — 

"  Theodore  Ginniss  would  be  glad  to  see  Mr.  Burroughs 
a  moment  on  important  business." 

"  Indeed  !  ..  Well,  it  is  a  republic,  and  this  is  the  West ; 
but  only  Jack's  bean-stalk  parallels  such  a  growth."  So 
said,  in  his  own  heart,  Teddy  Ginniss's  former  master,  as 
he  drew  two  or  three  rapid  Avhiffs  from  the  stump  of  his 
cigar,  and  then,  throwing  it  into  the  grass,  strolled  leis 
urely  into  the  reception-room. 

"  Ah,  Ginniss  !  how  are  you?"  inquired  he  of  the  pale 

362 


TEDDY'S  PRIVILEGE.  363 

and  nervous  young  man,  who  stood  up  to  receive  him,  half 
extending  his  hand,  but  dropping  it  quickly  upon  perceiving 
that  of  Mr.  Burroughs  immovable. 

44  I  am  well,  sir,  thank  you." 

44  Want  to  see  me  on  business,  do  you  say?"  continued 
the  lawyer  coolly. 

"  Yes,  sir."  And,  as  his  true  purpose  and  position 
came  back  to  him,  Teddy  suddenly  straightened  himself, 
and  grew  as  cool  as  the  stately  gentleman  waiting  with 
patient  courtesy  for  his  errand. 

44  I  thought,  sir,  I'd  come  to  you  first,  as  it  was  to  you  I 
first  had  occasion  to  speak  of  my  fault  in  hiding  her.  'Toi- 
nette  is  found,  sir  !  " 

44  What !  'Toiuette  Legrange  found  !  Teddy,  your  hand, 
my  boy  !  Found  by  you  ?  " 

44  Yes,  sir,"  said  Teddy,  suffering  his  hand  to  be  shaken. 
u  But  what  I  wanted  most  was  to  ask  if  you  think  it  safe 
to  tell  Mrs.  Legrange." 

44  Oh  !  I'll  see  to  that.  Of  course,  it  must  be  done  very 
delicately.  But  where  is  the  child  now?  and  when  did  you 
find  her  ?  " 

"  If  you  please,  Mr.  Burroughs,  I  should  like  to  tell  the 
story  first  to  Mrs.  Legrange,  and  I  should  like  to  tell  her 


364  TEDDY'S  PRIVILEGE. 

all  myself.  It  was  I  that  hurt  her,  or  helped  to  hurt  her  ; 
and  I'd  like  to  be  the  one  to  give  her  the  great  joy  that's 
waiting  for  her.  Besides,  sir,"  and  Teddy's  face  grew  white 
again,  "though  I  did  what  was  wrong  enough,  I  never 
deny,  I  have  suffered  for  it  more,  maybe,  than  you  can 
think  of;  and  this  is  all  the  amends  I  could  ever  want. 
Mrs.  Legrange  has  been  very  good  to  me,  sir,  and  never 
blamed  me,  or  spoke  an  unkind  word,  even  at  the  first." 

"  And  I  spoke  a  good  many,  you're  thinking,"  said  Mr. 
Burroughs  keenly.  "  Well,  Teddy,  I  am  a  man,  and  Mrs. 
Legrange  is  a  woman  ;  and  women  look  at  matters  more 
leniently  and  less  exactly  than  we  do.  But  you  must  not 
be  satisfied  with  pity  instead  of  justice  ;  for  that  will  be 
to  encourage  your  self-esteem  at  the  expense  of  your  man 
hood.  I  do  not  deny  that  I  never  have  recovered  from  my 
surprise  at  finding  you  had  so  long  deceived  me  ;  but  the 
news  you  bring  to-day  makes  amends  for  much  :  and,  after 
I  have  heard  the  particulars,  I  may  yet  be  able  to  forget 
the  past,  and  feel  to  you  as  I  used." 

But  Teddy's  bow,  though  respectful,  was  not  humble  ; 
and  he  only  asked  in  reply,  — 

"  Where  shall  I  find  Mrs.  Legrange,  sir?" 

"  She  walked  down  to  the  glen  about  half  an  hour  ago. 


TEDDY'S  PRIVILEGE.  365 

Yon  may  follow  her  there,  if  you  please  ;  and,  since  you 
insist  upon  it  as  a  right,  I  will  leave  you  to  break  the  news 
to  her  alone.  But  you  will  remember,  I  hope,  that  she  is 
very  delicate,  —  very  easily  startled.  You  will  have  to  be 
exceedingly  cautious." 

"  Yes,  sir ; "  and  with  a  ceremonious  bow  the  young 
man  left  the  room,  and  the  next  minute  was  seen  darting 
along  the  path  to  the  glen. 

Mr.  Burroughs  looked  after  him  appreciatively,  and  mut 
tered,  — 

"  A  nice-looking  fellow,  and  not  without  self-respect.  I 
see  no  reason  why,  in  half  a  dozen  years,  he  should  not  enter 
his  name  at  the  Suffolk  bar  itself,  and  stand  as  well  as  any 
man  on  the  roll.  But  my  little  Sunshine  !  Confound  the 
boy  !  why  couldn't  he  have  told  me  where  to  find  her  ?  " 

So  Mr.  Burroughs  went  back  to  the  piazza,  and  tried  to 
quiet  himself  with  another  cigar,  but  was  too  nervous  to 
make  any  more  rings  ;  while  Teddy  sped  away  to  the  glen, 
and  presently  found  himself  in  a  cool  and  cavernous  retreat, 
which  the  sunlight  only  penetrated  by  dancing  down  with 
the  waters  that  slid  laughingly  over  a  rocky  ledge  above, 
and  shook  themselves  into  spray  before  they  reached  the  pool 
below,  then,  after  dimpling  and  sporting  there  for  a  moment. 


36G  TEDDY'S  PRIVILEGE. 

danced  merrily  away.  At  either  hand,  high  walls  of  rock, 
half  hfld  in  trailing  vines  and  clinging  herbage,  shut  out  the 
heat  of  day  ;  and,  through  a  thousand  ever-changing  peepholes 
among  the  swaying  foliage,  the  blue  sky  looked  gayly  down, 
and  challenged  those  who  hid  in  the  glen  to  come  forth,  and 
dare  the  fervor  of  the  mid-day  sun. 

Under  a  tree  near  the  foot  of  the  fall  sat  Mrs.  Legrange, 
her  head  leaning  upon  her  hand,  her  book  idle  upon  her  lap, 
watching  dreamily  the  waters  that  swayed  and  *ebbed,  and 
paused  and  coquetted  with  every  flower  or  leaf  that  bent 
toward  them ;  and  yet  in  the  end  went  on,  always  on,  as  the 
idlest  of  us  go,  until  through  the  merry  brook,  the  heedless 
fall,  the  sparkling  stream,  and  stately  river,  we  reach  at  last 
the  ocean,  calm,  changeless,  and  eternal  in  its  unmoved 
depths. 

The  lady  looked  up  with  a  little  start  as  she  heard  the 
approaching  footsteps,  and  then  rose  with  extended  hand,  — 

"  Theodore  !  "  said  she  kindly.  "  I  am  very  glad  to  sec 
you  ;  and  so  grown !  You  are  much  taller  than  in  the 
spring." 

u  Yes,  ma'am  :  I  believe  so.  I  don't  think  I  shall  grow 
much  more,"  said  Teddy,  swallowing  a  great  bunch  in  his 
throat  that  almost  suffocated  him. 


TEDDY'S  PRIVILEGE.  3 $7 

"  No?  Why,  you  are  not  so  very  old,  are  you?"  asked 
Mrs.  Legrange,  smiling  a  little. 

"  Nearly  eighteen,  ma'am." 

"  Oh,  well !  time  enough  for  a  good  deal  of  growth,  bo  lily 
and  mental,  yet.  So  you  have  been  at  the  West  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  and  have  heard  some  curious  things  there, 
—  some  things  that  I  think  will  interest  you.  Have  you 
ever  thought  of  adopting  a  little  girl,  ma'am  ?  " 

Mrs.  Legrange  sadly  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  Theodore :  I  never  wished  to  do  that.  She  never 
could  be  any  thing  like  her  to  me,  and  it  would  seem  like 
giving  away  her  place.  I  had  rather  wait." 

"  I  am  sorry,  ma'am ;  for  I  saw  a  little  girl,  where  I  have 
been,  that  I  was  going  to  speak  of." 

"  Was  she  a  pretty  child?" 

"  Very  pretty,  and  looked  like  "  — 

"  No,  Theodore,  don't  say  that,  because  I  shall  think 
either  you  have  forgotten  or  never  learned  her  face.  No 
child  ever  looked  like  her,"  said  the  mother  positively. 

"  This  little  girl  was  very  pretty  though,"  persisted 
Teddy. . 

"  How  did  she  look?" 

"  She  had  great  blue  eyes  (if  you'll  excuse  me,  ma'am), 


368  TEDDY'S  PRIVILEGE. 

just  like  yours,  with  long  brown  eyelashes,  and  a  great  deal 
of  bright  hair,  not  just  brown,  nor  yet  just  golden,  but  be 
tween  the  two  ;  and  a  little  mouth  very  much  curved  ;  and 
pretty  teeth ;  and  a  delicate  color ;  and  little  hands  with 
pretty  finger-nails." 

"  Theodore ! " 

Teddy,  for  the  first  time  in  his  description,  dared  to  raise 
his  eyes,  but  dropped  them  again.  He  could  not  meet 
the  anguish  in  those  other  eyes  so  earnestly  fixed  upon 
him. 

"  She  was  the  adopted  child  of  the  people  I  visited  in 
Iowa,"  faltered  he. 

"  Theodore  !  "  said  Mrs.  Legrange  again  ;  and  then,  in  a 
breathless  fluttering  voice,  — 

"  Do  not  trifle  with  me  ;  do  not  try  to  prepare  my  mind  ; 
and,  oh !  for  God's  sake,  if  it  is  a  false  hope,  say  so  this  in 
stant  !  Is  she  found  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  may  be  so,  dear  Mrs.  Legrange  !  " 

"  No.  but  it  is  so  !  you  know  it !  I  see  it  in  your  eyes,  I 
hear  it  in  your  voice  !  You  cannot  hide  it,  you  cannot  deceive 
me  !  O  my  God  !  my  God !  —  to  thee  the  first  praise,  the 
first  thanks  ! " 

She  fell  upon  her  knees,  her  face  upraised  to  heaven ;  and 


TEDDY'S  PRIVILEGE.  3G9 

never  mortal  artist  drew  such  a  picture  of  ecstatic  praise. 
And  though  in  after-years  Theodore  Giuniss  may  wander 
through  the  galleries  where  the  world  conserves  her  rarest 
gems  of  art,  never  will  he  find  Madonna  or  Magdalen  or 
saint  to  compare  with  the  one  picture  his  memory  treasures 
as  the  perfection  of  earthly  loveliness,  made  radiant  with 
the  purest  heavenly  bliss. 

"  Now  come  ! "  exclaimed  the  mother,  springing  to  her 
feet,  and  rapidly  leading  the  way  along  the  narrow  path. 
"  You  shall  tell  me  all  as  we  go." 

And  the  young  man  found  it  hard  work  to  keep  pace  with 
the  delicate  woman,  as  she  flew  rather  than  walked  towards 
her  child. 

u  If  you  will  wait  here  in  your  own  room,  I  will  bring 
her  to  you,"  said  Teddy,  as  he  and  Mrs.  Legrange  ap 
proached  the  hotel  again. 

"Bring  her!  Where  is  she  now?"  asked  the  mother, 
looking  at  him  in  dismay. 

"  I  left  them  at  the  other  hotel,  thinking,  if  I  brought 
her  directly  here,  we  might  meet  you  before  you  were  told," 
explained^  Teddy. 

"Who  is  with  her?" 

24 


370 

"Dora  Darling,  the  young  lady  who  adopted  her,  —  the 
one  I  told  you  of  as  living  in  Iowa." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  and  she  has  come  all  the  way  to  bring  my 
child  to  me  !  No,  I  cannot  wait :  I  will  come  with  you." 

So  Mr.  Burroughs,  still  sitting  upon  the  piazza,  saw  his 
cousin  hastening  by,  and  came  to  join  her. 

"  Yes,  come,  Tom !  come  to  —  oh,  to  see  Sunshine 
again  ! "  and  Mrs.  Legrange  turned  her  flushed  face  away 
to  hide  the  hysterical  agitation  she  could  not  quite  sup 
press. 

"  Take  my  arm,  Fanny  ;  and  do  not  walk  so  fast.  You 
will  hurt  yourself,"  said  Mr.  Burroughs  kindly. 

"  No,  no  :  nothing  can  hurt  me  now.  I  must  go  fast : 
if  I  had  wings,  I  should  fly  !  " 

"  Here  is  the  house.  Will  you  wait  in  the  parlor  till  I 
bring  her  down?"  asked  Teddy,  leading  the  way  up  the 
steps  of  the  principal  hotel  at  Yellow  Springs. 

"  No  :  take  me  to  the  room  where  they  are  waiting.  I 
want  to  see  her  without  preparation,"  said  Mrs.  Legrange. 

So  the  whole  party  followed  Teddy  up  the  stairs  to  a 
door,  where  he  paused  and  knocked.  A  low  voice  said, — 

"  Come  in  !  "  and  the  opening  door  showed  Dora  seated 
upon  a  low  chair,  with  Sunshine  clasped  in  her  arms,  and 


TEDDY'S  PRIVILEGE.  371 

fast  asleep.  She  made  a  motion  to  rise  upon  seeing  the 
visitors  ;  but  Mrs.  Legrange,  lifting  her  finger  as  imploring 
silence,  softly  advanced,  and  bent  with  clasped  hands  and 
eager  eyes  over  the  sleeping  child.  Then,  with  the  grace 
ful  instinct  of  a  woman  who  knows  and  pities  the  wound  in 
the  heart  of  her  less  fortunate  rival,  she  put  her  arms  about 
Dora  and  the  child,  embracing  both,  and  pressed  her  lips 
lightly  upon  Dora's  cheek,  devouringly  upon  Sunshine's 
lips. 

Dora  started  as  if  she  had  been  stung,  and  a  sudden 
tremor  crossed  the  rigid  calm  of  her  demeanor.  She  had 
schooled  herself  to  indifference,  to  neglect,  or  to  civil  thanks 
worse  than  either :  but  this  unexpected  tenderness,  this 
sisterly  recognition,  went  straight  through  all  its  defences 
to  her  quivering  heart ;  and  she  looked  up  piteously  into  the 
lovely  face  bent  over  her,  whispering,  — 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  found  her  !  but  I  have  nothing 
left  half  so  dear." 

There  was  no  reply ;  for  Sunshine,  without  sound  or 
movement,  suddenly  opened  her  eyes,  and  fixed  them  upon 
her  mother's  face,  while  deep  in  their  blue  depths  grew  a 
glad  smile,  breaking  at  last,  like  a  veritable  sungleam,  all 
over  her  face,  as,  holding  out  her  arms,  she  eagerly  said,  — 


372  TEDDY'S  PRIVILEGE. 

"  I've  come  to  heaven  while  I  was  asleep  ;  and  you're 
(he  angel  that  loves  me  so  dearly  well.  I  know  you  by 
your  eyes." 

The  mother  clasped  her  own,  —  as  who  shall  blame  her? 
—  and  Dora's  arms  and  Dora's  heart  were  empty,  robbed 
of  the  nestling  they  had  cherished,  —  empty,  as  she  said  to 
herself,  turning  from  the  sight  of  that  maternal  bliss,  of  the 
best  love  she  had  ever  known,  or  could  ever  hope. 

Mr.  Burroughs,  who  liked  character-reading,  watched 
her  narrowly  ;  and  when,  presently,  the  whole  party  re 
turned  to  Mrs.  Legrange's  hotel,  he  quietly  walked  beside 
Dora,  lingering  a  little,  and  detaining  her  out  of  hearing  of 
Mrs.  Legrange  and  Teddy,  who  walked  on  with  Sunshine 
between  them. 

"  Is  virtue  its  own  reward,  Miss  Dora?"  asked  he  ab 
ruptly,  when  almost  half  the  distance  between  the  two 
hotels  was  passed. 

Dora  looked  at  him  a  little  puzzled  ;  and  then,  as  she 
read  the  half-sympathizing,  half-mocking  expression  of  his 
face,  answered,  — 

"  You  mean  I  am  not  happy  in  bringing  Sunshine  back 
to  her  mother  ;  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Exactly ;  and  you  told  me  once  that  no  one  ought  to 


TEDDY'S  PRIVILEGE.  373 

be  rewarded  for  doing  what  is  right,  because  it  is  reward 
enough  to  know  that  we  are  doing  right." 

u  And  so  it  is.  I  don't  want  any  reward,"  said  Dora 
rather  hastily. 

"  No  :  but,  if  young  Ginniss  had  not  discovered  the  iden 
tity  of  the  child,  my  cousin  would  not  have  been  unhappier 
than  she  has  been  for  two  years  ;  and  you  —  would  you 
not  be  at  this  moment  better  content  with  life?" 

Dora's  clear  eyes  looked  straight  into  his  as  she  wonder- 
ingly  asked, — 

u  Do  you  want  me  to  say  I  am  sorry  Mrs.  Legrange  has 
found  her  child  ?  " 

"  If  it  is  true,  yes ;  and  I  know  you  will,"  replied  Mr. 
Burroughs  quietly. 

"  And  so  I  would,"  said  Dora  in  the  same  tone  ;  "  but 
it  is  not  true.  I  am  glad,  not  happy,  but  very  glad,  that 
Sunshine  has  come  to  her  mother*  at  last,  —  her  heaven,  as 
she  calls  it.  I  do  not  deny  that  my  own  heart  is  very  sore, 
and  that  I  cannot  yet  think  of  her  not  being  my  child  any 
more,  without"  — 

She  turned  away  her  head,  and  Mr.  Burroughs  looked  at 
her  yet  more  attentively  than  he  had  been  looking. 

"  But,  if  you  could,  you  would  not  go  back,  and  arrange 


374:  TEDDY'S  PRIVILEGE. 

it  that  Teddy  should  not  come  to  your  house?  Word  and 
honor  now,  Dora." 

u  Word  and  honor,  Mr.  Burroughs,  I  surely  would  not. 
Can  you  doubt  me  ?  " 

"  No,  Dora,  I  do  not ;  but,  in  your  place,  I  should  doubt 
myself." 

Dora  looked  at  him  with  a  frank  smile. 

u  I  would  trust  you  in  this  place,  or  any  other,"  said  she 
simply. 

u  Would  you,  would  you  really,  Dora?  "  asked  Tom  Bur 
roughs  eagerly,  while  a  slight  color  flashed  into  his  hand 
some  face.  "  Why  would  you?  " 

"  Because  I  feel  sure  you  could  never  do  any  thing 
mean  or  ungenerous,  or  feel  any  way  but  nobly  "  — 

She  paused  suddenly,  and  a  tide  of  crimson  suffused 
her  face  and  neck.  Mr.  Burroughs,  with  the  heroism  of 
perfect  breeding,  turned  away  his  eyes,  and  suppressed  the 
enthusiastic  answer  that  had  risen  to  his  lips.  He  would 
not  add  to  her  confusion  by  accepting  as  extraordinary  the 
impulsive  expression  of  her  feelings.  So  he  simply  said, 
after  a  moment  of  silence, — 

"  Thank  you,  Dora,  I  hope  you  may  never  have  occa 
sion  to  regret  your  noble  confidence." 


TEDDY'S  PRIVILEGE.  375 

Dora  did  not  answer,  but  hastened  her  steps,  until  she 
walked  close  behind  Mrs.  Legrange  ;  nor  did  her  compan 
ion  speak  again,  although,  could  Dora  have  read  his 
thoughts,  she  might  have  found  in  them  matter  of  more 
interest  than  any  words  he  had  ever  spoken  to  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

WHAT   DORA    SAID. 

IT  had  been  Dora's  intention  to  return  to  Iowa  immedi 
ately  after  leaving  Sunshine  in  charge  of  her  own  friends  ; 
but  Mrs.  Legrange  insisted  so  urgently  upon  her  remaining 
with  them  for  some  weeks  at  least,  and  the  parting  with 
the  dear  child  she  had  so  loved  and  cherished  seemed  so 
cruel  as  it  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  that  she  finally  con 
sented  to  remain  for  a  short  time,  and  removed  to  the  NefF 
House,  where  Mrs.  Legrange  had  engaged  rooms  until  the 
first  of  October. 

To  other  natures  than  those  called  to  encounter  it,  the 
relation  between  these  three  might,  for  a  time  at  least, 
have  been  painful  and  perplexing  ;  but  Mrs.  Legrange  was 
possessed  of  such  exquisite  tact,  Sunshine  of  such  abound 
ing  and  at  the  same  time  delicate  affections,  and  Do^a  of 
such  a  noble  and  generous  temper,  that  they  could  not  but 
harmonize  :  and  while  'Toinette  bloomed,  flower-like,  into 
new  and  wonderful  beauty  bathed  in  the  sunlight  of  ft 

376 


WHAT    DORA    S  UD.  37? 

double  love,  Mrs.  Legrange  never  forgot  to  associate  Dora 
with  herself  as  its  source.  And  Dora  joyed  in  her  darling's 
joy ;  and,  if  her  heart  ached  at  thought  of  the  coming 
loneliness,  the  pain  expressed  itself  no  otherwise  than  in 
an  added  tenderness. 

"  That  is  a  noble  girl,  Fanny,"  said  Mr.  Burroughs  one 
day.  "  How  different  from  our  dear  five  hundred  friends 
at  home  !  Put  Mary  Elmsly,  or  Lizzy  Patterson,  or  Miss 
Bloomsleigh,  or  Marion  Lee,  in  her  place,  and  how  would 
they  fill  it?" 

"  She  is,  indeed,  a  noble  girl,"  replied  his  cousin 
warmly.  "  I  never  shall  forget  the  tender  and  wise  care 
she  has  taken  of  Sunshine  in  this  last  year.  She  has 
strengthened  heart  and  principle  as  I  ain  afraid  I  could 
never  have  done." 

"Paul  is  coming  out  for  you,  isn't  he?"  pursued  Mr. 
Burroughs  after  a  pause. 

"Yes:  he  will  be  here  by  the  20th.  Why  did  you 
ask?" 

"  Because  Dora  cannot  travel  home  alone,  and  I  think 
of  accompanying  her.  I  may  stay  a  while,  and  study 
prairie  life." 

Mrs.  Legrange   looked    at  him   in   surprise  a   moment  ; 


•^78  WHAT    DOftA    SAID. 

and  then  a  merry  smile  broke  over  her  face,  for  such  a 
smile  was  possible  now  to  her. 

"Capital!"  exclaimed  she.  "I  never  thought  of  it. 
But  why  not?" 

u  Why  not  spend  a  few  weeks  in  Iowa?  Well,  of  course, 
why  not?"  asked  Mr.  Burroughs  a  little  grimly,  and  pres 
ently  added, — 

u  That  is  a  pernicious  custom  of  yours,  Fanny,  —  that 
rushing  at  conclusions." 

"  Men  never  rush  at  conclusions,  do  they?" 

*'  No  :  of  course  not." 

"  Very  well,  then  :  arrive  at  your  conclusion  as  leisurely 
as  you  like.  It  is  none  the  less  certain." 

"  Pshaw  !  "  remarked  Mr.  Burroughs  ;  and  as  his  cousin 
laughingly  turned  to  bend  over  Sunshine,  and  help  her  read 
her  story-book,  he  took  his  hat  and  went  out,  turning  his 
steps  toward  the  glen. 

Not  till  he  reached  its  deepest  recesses,  however,  did  he 
find  Dora  ;  and  then  he  stood  still  to  look  at  her,  himself  un 
seen.  But  what  a  white,  dumb  look  of  anguish  upon  the 
sweet  face !  what  clouds,  heavy  with  coming  showers, 
upon  the  brow !  what  rainy  lights  in  the  upturned  eyes  ! 
what  a  resistless  sorrow  in  the  downward  curve  of  the  lips. 


WHAT    DORA    SAID.  379 

ordinarily  so  firm  and  cheerful !  Even  the  shapely  hands, 
tightly  folded,  and  firmly  set  upon  the  knee,  told  their  story, 
—  even  the  rigid  lines  and  constrained  attitude  of  the  figure. 
Mr.  Burroughs's  first  impulse  was  artistic  ;  and  he  longed  to 
be  a  sculptor,  that  he  might  model  an  immortal  statue  of 
Silent  Grief.  The  second  was  human  ;  and  he  longed  to 
comfort  a  sorrow  at  whose  cause  he  already  guessed,  and 
yet  guessed  but  half.  The  third  was  less  creditable,  but 
perhaps  as  probable,  in  a  man  of  Mr.  Burroughs's  tempera 
ment  and  education  ;  for  it  was  to  study  arid  dissect  this  new 
phase  of  the  young  girl's  character.  He  quietly  approached, 
and  seated  himself  beside  her  with  a  commonplace  re 
mark,  — 

"A  very  pretty  bit  of  scenery,  Dora." 

"Yes,"  replied  she,  struggling  to  resume  her  usual  de 
meanor. 

"  I  am  afraid,  however,  it  does  not  satisfy  your  eye, 
accustomed  to  the  breadth  of  prairie  views.  Confess  that 
you  are  a  little  weary  of  it  and  us,  and  longing  for  home." 

u  I  shall  probably  set  out  for  home  to-morrow,"  said 
Dora,  turning  away  her  head,  and  playing  idly  with  the 
grass  beside  her. 

"  I  thought  you  were  homesick.  I  am  sorry  we  have  so 
ill  succeeded  in  contenting  you." 


380  WHAT    DORA    SAID. 

'•  Oh,  dou't  think  that !  I  have  been  so  happy  here  these 
two  weeks  !  That  is  the  very  reason  I  ought  to  go." 

"  How  is  that?     I  don't  see  the  argument." 

"  Because  this  is  not  my  home,  or  the  way  I  am  to  live, 
or  these  the  people  I  am  to  live  with ;  and  the  sooner  I  am 
away,  the  better." 

She  did  not  see  all  the  meaning  of  her  words,  poor  child ! 
but  her  companion  did,  and  smiled  merrily  to  himself  as  he 
said,  — 

"  You  mean,  we  do  not  come  up  to  your  standard,  and 
you  cannot  waste  more  time  upon  us  ;  don't  you  ?  " 

Dora  turned  and  looked  at  him,  her  suspicions  roused  by 
a  mocking  ring  beneath  the  affected  humility  of  his  tone  ; 
and,  looking,  she  caught  the  covert  smile  not  yet  faded  from 
his  eyes. 

"It  is  not  kind,  Mr.  Burroughs,  to  laugh  at  me,  or  to  try 
to  confuse  me  in  this  way,"  said  she  steadily.  "  No  doubt, 
you  know  what  I  mean  ;  and  why  do  you  wish  to  force  me 
into  saying,  that  the  more  I  see  of  the  life  and  thoughts  and 
manners  of  such  people  as  Mrs,  Legrange  and  you,  and 
even  my  own  little  Sunshine,  now  so  far  away  from  me,  the 
less  fit  I  feel  to  associate  with  them?  And,  just  because  it 
is  so  pleasant  to  me,  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  go  back  at  once 


WHAT    DORA    SAID.  381 

to  the  home  and  the  duties  and  the  people  where  I  belong. 
I  am  but  a  poor  country-girl,  sir,  hardly  taught  in  any  thing 
except  the  love  of  God,  and  the  wish  to  do  something  before 
I  die  to  make  my  fellow-creatures  a  little  happier  or  more 
comfortable  than  I  find  them.  Let  me  go  to  my  work,  and 
out  of  it  I  will  make  my  life." 

Perhaps  never  had  the  self-contained  heart  of  the  young 
girl  so  framed  itself  in  words  ;  certainly  never  had  Mr.  Bur 
roughs  so  fully  read  it :  and  when  she  finished,  and,  neither 
turning  from  him  nor  toward  him,  steadfastly  set  her  eyes 
forward,  as  one  who  sees  mapped  out  before  him  the  path 
he  is  to  tread  through  all  the  coming  years,  he  took  her 
hand  in  his  with  a  sudden  impulse  of  tenderness,  — 

« 

"  Dora,  you  will  love  some  one  yet ;  and  love  will  make 
you  happy." 

u  I  have  loved  two  people,  and  lost  them  both.  I  do  not 
mean  to  love  any  one  else,"  said  Dora,  quietly  withdrawing 
her  hand. 

Mr.  Burroughs  stared  at  her  in  astonishment ;  and,  with 
a  directness  more  natural  than  conventional,  exclaimed, — 

"  You  have  loved  twice  already  !  " 

"  Yes.  Three  times,  indeed.  I  loved  my  mother  and 
Picter,  and  they  are  both  dead.  I  loved  Sunshine,  and  she 


.'582  WHAT    DOHA    SAID. 

is  lost  to  me.  O  my  little  Sunshine  !  who  was  all  to  me, 
and  who,  I  thought  "  — 

And  then  —  oh  rare  result  of  all  these  days  of  suffer 
ing,  and  hidden  bitterness,  and  a  lingering  relinquishmeut 
of  the  sweet  and  tender  hope  of  her  future  life  !  —  Dora 
gave  way  all  at  once,  and,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands, 
burst  into  a  passion  of  tears  ;  such  tears  as  women  seldom 
weep  ;  such  tears  as  Dora  herself  had  shed  but  two  or  three 
times  in  her  short  life. 

Mr.  Burroughs  sat  for  a  moment,  looking  at  her  with  a 
yearning  tenderness  in  his  eyes,  and  then  folded  her  sud 
denly  in  his  arms,  whispering,  — 

"  Dora,  Dora  Darling !  I  love  you,  ai^l  I  will  be  to  you 
more  than  all  these ;  and  no  time  nor  chance  shall  rob  you 
of  my  love,  if  only  you  will  give  me  yours  instead." 

But  Dora  repulsed  him  vehemently,  sobbing,  "  No,  no, 
no  !  you  shall  not  say  it !  I  will  not  hear  it !  " 

"Not  say  it?  Why  not?  It  is  God's  truth;  and  you 
must  have  known  it  before  to-day." 

"  No :  it  is  only  pity,  because  you  think  I  want  to  stay, 
and  because  —  No  :  I  will  not  have  it !  I  will  not  hear  it ! 
You  are  quite  wrong,  Mr.  Burroughs  :  you  do  not  know"  — 

She  stopped  in  confusion.     She  had  done  sobbing  now ; 


WHAT    DORA    SAID.  383 

but  she  did  not  uncover  her  face,  or  look  up.  Mr.  Bur 
roughs  regarded  her  with  a  strange  expression,  and  then, 
taking  her  hand,  said  softly,  — 

"  Dora,  I  have  not  dared,  as  you  fear  that  I  have,  to 
fancy  that  you  cared  for  me.  A  moment  ago,  I  should  not 
have  dared  to  ask  you  as  I  now  do  ;  and  remember,  Dora, 
that  I.  ask  for  the  solemn  truth,  —  do  you  love  me?" 

Dora  tore  away  her  hand  indignantly,  and  attempted  to 
rise.  She  had  not  spoken,  or  looked  at  him.  Over  the 
pale  face  of  the  lover  shot  a  gleam  of  triumph.  But  he 
only  said,  — 

"Dora,  it  will  not  be  like  you  to  leave  ine  in  this  way. 
It  is  unjust  and  untrue." 

"It  is  you  who  are  unkind  and  ungenerous,"  said  the 
girl  passionately. 

"Why,  Dora?  Why  is  it  ungenerous  to  ask  for  a  con 
fession  of  your  love,  when  I  have  already  told  you  that  all 
my  heart  is  in  your  hands  ?  " 

"  You  fancied  that  I  —  that  I  —  liked  you  ;  and  you  knew 
I  did  not  want  to  go  home,  and  you  pitied  me :  and  I  won't 
have  it,  sir.  I  do  not  need  pity,  and  I  do  not "  — 

Her  voice  died  away,  killed  by  the  falsehood  she  could 
noi  speak.  Mr.  Burroughs  no  longer  pressed  for  an  answer 


384  WHAT   DORA    SAID. 

to  the  question  he  had  asked,  but  grasped  at  a  new  argu 
ment. 

"  Pity  and  kindness  ! "  sadly  repeated  he.  u  Dora,  if  you 
only  knew  how  much  more  I  stand  in  need  of  your  pity  than 
you  of  mine,  if  you  only  knew  what  kindness  your  life  has 
already  done  mine,  you  would  not  treat  me  in  this  man- 
ner." 

"  You  need  my  pity ! "  exclaimed  Dora,  forgetting  her 
self,  and  turning  to  look  at  him  in  naive  astonishment ; 
"and  for  what?" 

"  For  a  purposeless  and  weary  life ;  for  an  empty  heart 
and  a  corroded  faith,"  said  her  lover  bitterly ;  "  for  'an 
indifference  to  men,  amounting  almost  to  aversion  ;  for  a 
trifling  estimate  of  women,  amounting  almost  to  contempt ; 
for  wasted  abilities  and  neglected  opportunities,  —  for  all 
these,  Dora,  I  need  your  pity,  and  have  a  right  to  claim  it : 
for  it  is  only  since  I  loved  you  that  I  have  recognized  my 
own  great  needs  and  deficiencies.  Complete  the  work  you 
have  unconsciously  begun,  dearest.  Reverse  the  fairy  fable, 
and  let  the  beautiful  princess  come  to  waken  with  her  kiss 
the  slothful  prince,  who  else  might  sleep  forever." 

"How  can  you  know  so  soon  that  I  am  the  princess?" 
asked  Dora  shyly. 


WHAT    DORA    SAID.  385 

"  So  soon  !  I  felt  the  truth  stirring  blindly  in  my  heart 
that  first  night,  now  a  year  ago,  when  I  saw  you  in  the  old 
home,  and  read  your  candid  eyes,  and  heard  your  clear 
voice,  and  marked  your  steady  and  serene  influence  upon 
all  about  you.  I  hardly  knew  it  then  ;  but,  when  I  was  away 
from  you,  I  was  myself  surprised  to  find  how  vivid  your 
impression  upon  my  mind  remained.  When  my  cousin 
asked  me  to  accompany  her  here,  I  silently  resolved,  that, 
before  I  returned  home,  I  would  see  you  again  ;  would 
study  as  deeply  as  I  might  the  character  I  already  guessed. 
Then,  Dora,  when  I  saw  you,  as  I  have  seen  you  in  these 
last  weeks,  struggling  so  nobly  to  render  complete  the  sacri 
fice  you  came  hither  to  make  ;  when  I  saw  the  sweetness, 
the  power,  the  loftiness,  and  the  divine  truth,  of  your  nature, 
shining  more  clearly  day  by  day,  and  yourself  the  only  one 
unconscious  of  the  priceless  value  of  such  a  nature,  —  then, 
Dora,  I  came  to  know  for  truth  what  I  tell  you  now,  God 
hearing  me,  that  you  are  the  woman  of  all  the  world  whoui 
I  love,  honor,  and  undeservingly  long  to  make  my  own. 
Once  more,  Dora,  —  and  you  cannot  no,w  refuse  to  answer 
me  at  least,  —  once  more  I  ask,  do  you  or  can  you  love 
me?" 

He  grasped  her  hands  in  both  his  own,  and  his  keen  eyes 
25 


386  WHAT    DORA    SAID. 

read  her  very  soul.  She  raised  hers  as  steadily  to  meet 
them  ;  and,  though  the  hot  blush  seemed  to  scorch  her  very 
brow,  she  answered,  — 

"  I  did  not  know  it,  quite,  until  to-day  ;  but  I  believe  —  I 
think  —  I  have  cared  about  you  ever  since  a  year  ago.  That 
is,  not  love  ;  but  every  one  else  seemed  less  than  they  had 
been :  and  since  I  knew  you  here,  and  since  I  thought  I 
must  go  home,  and  never  see  you  any  more,  it  was"  — 

She  faltered  and  stopped,  drooping  her  head  before  the 
tender  triumph  of  his  glance.  Truth  had  asserted  herself, 
as  with  Dora  she  must  have  done  in  any  stress,  but  now 
of  a  sudden  found  herself  silenced  by  a  timidity  as  charm 
ing  as  it  was  new  in  the  strong  and  well-poised  tempera 
ment  of  the  girl,  who,  a  moment  before  so  brave,  now  stood 
trembling  and  blushing  beneath  her  lover's  gaze. 

He  drew  her  to  his  breast,  and  pressed  his  lips  to  hers. 

"Dora,  my  own  wife!"  whispered  he.  "  God  so  deal 
with  me  here  and  hereafter  as  I  with  you,  the  best  gift  in 
his  mighty  hand  !  " 

And  Dora,  hiding  her  face  upon  his  breast,  whispered 
again,  — 

"  I  was  so  unhappy  an  hour  ago  !  and  now,  as  Sunshine 
says,  I  have  come  to  heaven  all  at  once  ! " 


WHAT    DORA    SAID.  387 

Her  lover  answered  by  a  mute  caress  ;  for  there  are  mo 
ments  when  words  are  all  too  weak  for  speech.  And  so  he 
only  clasped  her  closer  in  his  arms,  and  bent  his  head  upon 
her  own ;  while  all  about  them  the  hundred  voices  of  the 
summer  noon  whispered  benediction  on  their  joy  ;  the  eddy 
ing  stream  paused  in  its  whirl  to  dimple  into  laughter  at  their 
feet ;  the  sunlight,  broken  and  flecked  by  the  waving  branches, 
fell  in  a  shifting  golden  shower  upon  their  heads  ;  and  Nature, 
the  great  mother,  through  her  myriad  eyes  and  tongues, 
blessed  the  betrothal  of  her  dearest  child. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

A   SURPRISE    FOR   MRS.   GINNISS. 

"  SURE  an'  it's  time  they  was  a-coomin',"  said  Mrs.  Gin- 
uiss,  going  out  upon  the  door-stone,  and  shading  her  eyes 
from  the  level  rays  of  the  sunset  as  she  looked  steadfastly 
down  the  road. 

"  Aii'  who'll  they  all  be,  I'm  woondherin'?  The  missus 
says  foive  bids  was  wanted ;  an*  faith  it's  well  she  said  no 
more,  for  sorra  a  place  'ud  there  be  to  stand  anudder  in.  An' 
tay  ready  for  eight  folks,  at  sax  o'clock.  That's  it,  I  belave  ; 
though  all  thim  figgers  is  enough  to  craze  me  poor  head." 

She  took  a  little  note  from  her  pocket  as  she  spoke,  and, 
unfolding  it,  looked  anxiously  at  the  delicate  letters. 

"  Sure  an'  it's  all  there  if  on'y  I  had  the  sinse  to  rade  it. 
An'  feth,  it's  the  tail  uv  it  I'm  howldin*  to  the  top,  as  I'm'  a 
sinner  !  No,  thin  :  it  looks  as  crabbed  this  way  as  that.  I'd 
niver  be  afther  makin*  it  out  if  it  towld  of  a  fortin  coomin' 
to  me  for  the  axiri'.  Shusin,  Shusin,  I  say  !  " 

"  What  is  it,  Mrs.  Gmniss?"  asked  a  pleasant  voice  from 


A    SURPRISE    FOR    MRS.    GINNISS.  38$ 

within ;  and  Susan,  looking  a  little  thinner  and  paler  than 
when  we  first  met  her,  came  out  of  the  parlor,  where  she 
had  been  picking  a  few  scattered  petals  from  beneath  the 
vases  of  flowers  upon  the  mantle-shelf. 

"  An'  would  ye  be  plazed  to  read  the  missus's  note  to 
me  wonst  more  ?  Me  owld  eyes  are  that  dim,  I  can't  make  it 
out  in  the  gloamin'." 

Susan,  with  unshaken  gravity,  took  the  note,  turned  it 
right  side  up,  and  read  aloud,  while  her  companion  craftily 
glanced  over  her  shoulder  to  note  the  position  of  the  words 
as  they  were  spoken :  — 

"DEAR  MRS.  GINNISS, — 

"  We  shall  be  at  home  on  "Wednesday  evening,  at  six 
o'clock,  and  shall  bring  some  guests.  You  will  please  pre 
pare  tea  for  eight  persons  ;  and  make  up  five  beds,  three  of 
them  single  ones.  Tell  Susan  to  make  the  house  look  as 
pretty  as  she  can  ;  and  send  for  any  thing  she  or  you  need  in 

the  way  of  preparation. 

"F.  LEGRANGE." 

"  An'  faith  it's  this  minute  they're  coomin  !'  Look  at  the 
jaantin'-cars  fur  down  the  road  !  " 

"  One's  a  carryall,  and  the  other's  a  rockaway,"  said  Susan 
sententiously. 


390  A    SURPRISE    FOR    MRS.    GTNNISS. 

"  Mnsha,  an'  what's  the  odds  if  they're  one  thing  or  the 
other,  so  they  bring  the  purty  misthress  back  halesomer 
than  she  wint?  That's  her  in  the  first  car:  I  know  her 
while  bonnet  with  the  blue  ribbon." 

"  Yes,  there's  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Legrange,  and  a  strange  lady 
and  gentleman ;  and  the  other  carriage  are  all  strangers,  ex 
cept  Mr.  Burroughs.  Those  young  ladies  are  pretty  ;  ain't 
they?" 

But  Mrs.  Ginniss  was  already  at  the  gate,  courtesying  and 
beaming  :  — 

"  Ye're  wilcoom  home,  missus  and  masther ;  an'  it's  in 
health  an*  pace  I  hope  yees  coom." 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Ginniss.  We  are  very  well  indeed,  I 
believe,"  said  Mr.  Legrange  rather  nervously,  as  he  jumped 
from  the  carriage  and  helped  out  his  wife,  and  then  Kitty 
and  Mr.  Brown.  From  the  other  carriage,  meantime,  had 
alighted,  without  the  good  woman's  observation,  Mr.  Bur 
roughs,  Dora,  Karl,  and  another,  who,  the  moment  her  feet 
touched  the  ground,  ran  forward,  crying,  — 

"  O  mamma  !  I've  been  at  this  home  before." 

At  the  sound,  Mrs.  Ginniss  turned,  dropping  the  shawls, 
bags,  and  parasols  she  held,  in  one  mass  at  her  feet,  and 
then  dropping  herself  upon  her  knees  in  their  midst ;  while 


A    SURPRISE    FOR   MRS.    GINNISS.  391 

her  fresh  face  turned  of  a  ghastly  yellow,  and  her  uplifted 
hands  shook  visibly,  — 

"  Glory  be  to  God,  an*  what's  that !  "  exclaimed  she  in  a 
voice  of  terror. 

"  Oh,  it's  mammy,  it's  mammy  !  that  used  to  rock  me  in 
her  lap,  and  hold  my  feet,  and  sing  to  me  !  I  'member  her 
now,  and  Teddy  said  so  too.  O  mammy !  I'm  so  glad 
you've  come  again  !  " 

The  sobbing  woman  opened  wide  her  arms ;  and  Sun 
shine  leaped  into  them,  shouting  again  and  again, — 

"  It's  the  good  old  mammy !  and  I'm  so  glad,  I'm  so 
glad ! " 

"O  Mrs.  Legrange  !  is  it?  "  exclaimed  an  agitated  voice  ; 
and  Mrs.  Legrange,  turning,  found  Susan  standing  beside 
her  with  pale  face  and  clasped  hands,  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  child  with  a  sort  of  terror. 

"  Yes,  Susan,  it  is  'Toinette,  her  very  self.  I  would  not 
write,  because  I  wanted  to  see  if  she  would  know  you 
both,  and  you  her." 

''  Oh,  thank  God  !  thank  God  !  I  didn't  believe  I'd  ever 
forgive  myself  for  not  minding  her  better  ;  but  now  I  may. 
Miss  'Toinette,  dear,  won't  you  speak  to  Susan?" 

"  Susan ! "  exclaimed  the  child,  struggling  out  of  Mrs. 


392  A   SURPRISE    FOR   MRS.    GINNISS. 

Ginniss's  embrace,  and  leaving  that  good  woman  still 
exploding  in  a  feu-de-joie  of  thanksgiving,  emotion,  and 
astonishment.  "Are  you  Susan?  Why,  that  was  a  doll !  " 

"  A  doll?"  asked  the  nurse  in  bewilderment,  and  pausing 
in  act  of  kissing  her  recovered  charge,  not  with  the  raptu 
rous  abandonment  of  the  Irish  woman,  but  with  the  respect 
ful  tenderness  of  a  trained  English  servant. 

"  She  named  a  doll  after  you,  Mrs.  Ginniss  says,  al 
though  she  did  not  remember  who  you  really  were," 
explained  Mrs.  Legrange.  "  But  come,  my  friends :  we 
will  not  wait  longer  out  of  doors.  Dora,  you  and 
Kitty  know  the  way  even  better  than  I ;  and  Mr. 
Windsor  "  — 

"  It  isn't  Mr.  Windsor,  it's  Karlo,  mamma,"  persisted 
Sunshine,  dancing  up  the  narrow  path  in  advance  of  the 
party. 

"Yes,  Karl,  if  you  will  be  so  kind,"  said  Dr.  Windsor, 
offering  Mrs.  Legrange  his  arm. 

"  Then  Karl  will  feel  himself  as  much  at  home  here  as 
he  ever  did,  I  trust,"  said  the  lady  cordially. 

"  It  was  peeping  out  at  that  window  I  saw  you  first, 
Dora ;  and  I  thought  it  must  be  the  sunrise,"  whispered 
Tom  Burroughs  to  the  lady  he  escorted. 


A    SURPRISE    FOR   MRS.    GINNISS.  39 

"  I  am  sorry  I  should  have  so  put  you  out  of  counte 
nance.  Perhaps  that  is  the  reason  you  never  have  seen 
straight  since,  —  so  far  as  I  am  concerned  at  least,"  replied 
she. 

"  One  does  not  care  to  look  straight  at  the  sun  :  it  is 
sufficient  to  bask  in  its  light,"  whispered  the  lover. 

"  Oh  !  very  well,  if  that  is  what  you  want  —  Here,  Sun 
shine  !  Cousin  Tom  wants  you." 

The  little  girl  came  bounding  toward  them ;  and  Dora, 
with  a  wicked  little  laugh,  slipped  away,  and  up  the  stairs, 
to  the  room  that  had  been  Kitty's,  now  appropriated  to  the 
use  of  the  two  young  girls. 

Soon  the  happy  party  assembled  again  in  the  kitchen, 
where  stood  a  tea-table  judiciously  combining  the  generous 
breadth  of  Mrs.  Ginniss's  ideas  with  the  more  elegant  and 
subdued  tastes  inculcated  upon  Susan  by  a  long  period  of 
service  with  her  present  mistress. 

"Mind  you  tell  Jem  there's  more  beyant,  on'y  you 
wouldn't  set  it  on  all  to  wonst,"  whispered  the  Irish 
woman  hoarsely,  as  she  rushed  into  the  scullery,  leaving 
Susan  to  receive  the  guests  just  entering  the*  kitchen. 

"  Mrs.  Ginniss  thought  we  should  arrive  with  appetites, 
I  suspect,"  said  the  hostess,  laughing  a  little  apologetically 


394  A    SURPRISE    FOR    MRS.    GINNISS. 

as  they  seated  themselves  ;  and  Susan  did  not  think  it  best 
to  deliver  her  message. 

"And  so  we  have,  some  of  us  at  least;  and  I  do  not 
believe  even  the  ladies  will  refuse  a  bit  of  this  nice  tongue, 
or  some  cold  chicken.  What  do  you  say,  Dora  ? "  asked 
Mr.  Legrange  gayly. 

"No  tongue  for  her,  please  ;  she  is  supplied,"  remarked 
Mr.  Burroughs  sotto  voce  ;  and  Dora,  with  a  little  mutinous 
glance,  passed  her  plate  with,  — 

"A  slice  of  tongue,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Legrange." 

"  Never  mind  :  wait  a  few  days,  and  we  will  see,"  mur 
mured  Burroughs  threateningly ;  and  Dora  did  not  care  to 
retort,  but,  blushing  brightly,  began  an  eager  conversation 
with  Sunshine,  who  had  nestled  a  chair  in  between  those 
of  her  mother  and  Dora,  and  made  lively  claims  upon  the 
attention  of  both. 

An  hour  or  two  later,  Mrs.  Legrange  went  to  seek  her 
housekeeper,  and  found  her  seated  upon  the  step  of  the 
back  door,  her  hands  clasped  around  her  knees,  and  softly 
crooning  a  wild  Irish  melody  to  herself  as  she  rocked 
slowly  backward  and  forward,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
little  crescent  moon,  swimming  like  a  silver  boat  in  the 
golden  sea  of  sunset. 


A    SURPRISE    FUR    MRS.    GINNISS.  395 

"  An'  isn't  it  a  purty  sight,  yon  I  "  asked  she,  rising  as 
Mrs.  Legrange  spoke  to  her.  ".  Sure  an'  its  the  hoouey- 
moon  for  Misther  Booros  an'  the  swate  young  lady  that's  to 
marry  him." 

u  Yes,  it's  their  honey-moon;  and  I  believe  it  will  be  as 
bright  and  as  long  a  one  as  ever  shone,"  said  Mrs.  Le 
grange,  smiling  tenderly,  as  happy  wives  will  do  in  speaking 
of  the  future  of  a  bride. 

"  I  came  to  ask  you  to  go  up  stairs  with  me,  Mrs  Gin- 
uiss,"  continued  she  with  a  little  agitation  in  her  sweet 
voice.  "  There  is  something  for  you  to  see." 

"  Sure  an'  I  will,  ma'am.  Is  it  the  chambers  isn't 
settled  to  shute  yees  ?  " 

"•  Oh,  no  !  every  thing  is  admirable,  except  that  we  must 
contrive  a  little  bed  for  'Toinette  upon  the  couch  in  my 
room." 

"  An',  faith,  that's  asy  done,  ma'am.  There's  lashin's  o' 
blankets  an'  sheets  an'  pillers  not  in  use  at  all,  at  all. 
We've  plenty  uv  ivery  thin'  in  this  house,  glory  be  to 
God ! " 

Mrs.  Legiange  smiled  a  little  at  the  satisfaction  with 
which  the  Irish  woman  contemplated  a  superfluity,  even 
when  not  belonging  to  herself;  and  led  the  way  to  her 


o96  A   SURPRISE    FOR   MRS.    GINNISS. 

own  chamber,  where  sat  Dora,  as  she  had  sat  many  a  time 
within  those  Four  walls,  holding  Sunshine  upon  her  lap, 
and,  while  loosening  her  clothes  for  the  night,  telling  her 
one  of  the  stories  of  which  the  child  was  never  weary. 

"  See  here,  Mrs.  Ginniss  ! "  said  the  mother  hastily,  as 
she  stripped  the  frock  from  tlie  child's  white  shoulders,  and 
showed  a  little  linen  bag  hung  about  her  neck  by  a  silken 
cord.  "  Did  you  ever  see  that  before?" 

"  Sure  an'  what  would  ail  me  ovvld  eyes  not  to  seen  it, 
whin  me  own  fingers  sewed  it,  an'  me  own  han's  hoong  it 
aboot  the  little  crather's  nick  ?  " 

"  You  are  quite  sure  it  is  the  very  same?" 

"  Quite  an'  intirely ;  for  more  by  token  the  clot'  is  a  bit 
uv  the  linen  gownd  that  ray  mother  give  me  whin  I  wor 
married  to  Michael,  an*  the  sthring  wor  to  a  locket  that  my 
b'y  give  me  one  Christmas  Day." 

"And  what  is  in  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Legrauge  eagerly. 

"  The  bracelet,  uv  coorse.  Whin  Teddy  brought  her  to 
me  the  black  night  he  foun'  her  sinseless  in  the  strate,  she 
had  it  clinched  in  the  little  hand  uv  her  ;  an',  wThin  she  got 
betther,  there  wor  nought  she  loved  so  well  to  have  by  her, 
an'  tooch,  an'  look  at.  So  when  she  roomed  about,  an'  I 
wor  thinkin'  it  might  be  laid  asthray,  or  she  might  lave  it 


A   SURPRISE   FOR   MllS.    GINNISS.  397 

out  the  windy,  or  some  place,  an'  not  find  it,  I  sewed  it  up 
in  the  bit  bag,  an'  placed  it  round  her  nick,  and  bid  her 
niver,  niver,  uiver  let  it  be  took  off  till  she  coom  to  her 
own  agin. 

"'That  manes  hivin,  mammy,  don't  it?'  axed  the  dar- 
Hnt  in  her  own  purty  way  ;  an'  so  I  says,  '  Yis,  that  manes 
hivin  ;  an'  don't  ye  niver  be  lettin'  man,  woman,  nor  child, 
be  knowin'  to  it,  till  ye  git  to  hivin'.'  For  sure  I  knowed 
she  must  be  some  person's  child  that  'ud  one  day  give 
their  hearts  out  uv  their  buzzums  to  know  for  sure  that 
she  wor  their  own." 

"  And  that  is  the  reason  she  never  would  let  me  look  at 
it,  or  open  it,"  said  Dora.  u  She  always  said,  when  I 
asked  about  it,  that  it  was  to  go  to  heaven  with  her  ;  and, 
when  she  got  there,  she'd  open  it.  So  I  supposed  it  was  a 
charm  or  relic,  such  as  some  of  our  soldiers  used  to  carry 
about  their  necks  ;  and  I  never  meddled  with  it." 

"  And  I,  although  I  knew  what  it  must  be,  wanted  to 
hear  Mrs.  Ginniss  say  that  it  was  the  very  same,  bag  aud 
all,  that  she  put  about  the  darling's  neck  soon  after  she  went 
to  her.  But  now  "  — 

The  quick  snip  of  the  scissors  finished  the  sentence,  and 
the  bag  lay  in  Mrs.  Legrauge's  palm.  Sunshine's  little 


398  A    SURPRISE    FOIl    MRS.    GINNISS. 

hand  went  up  rather  forlornly  to  her  bosom,  robbed  of  w/iat 
it  so  long  had  cherished  ;  and  Dora  clasped  her  tighter,  and 
kissed  her  tenderly :  but  neither  spoke,  until  Mrs.  Legrange 
drew  from  the  bag,  and  held  before  them,  the  coral  bracelet, 
\\  ith  its  linked  cameos,  broken  at  one  point  by  the  force 
with  which  Mother  Winch  had  torn  it  from  the  child's 
shoulder,  and  with  the  clasp  still  closed. 

Mrs.  Legrange  opened  it,  touched  the  spring,  causing 
the  upper  plate  to  fly  up,  and  silently  showed  to  Dora  the 
name  "  Antoinette  Legrange  "  engraved  within. 

u  Not  quite  two  years  since  it  was  engraved,  and  what  a 
life  of  sorrow  !  "  said  she  softly. 

Then,  going  to  her  jewel-case,  she  took  out  the  mate, 
saved  as  a  sacred  relic  since  the  day  it  had  been  found 
upon  the  floor  in  the  drawing-room  after  'Toinette's  flight, 
and  handed  it  to  the  child,  saying, — 

u  Here  is  the  other  one,  darling ;  and  you  may,  if  you 
like,  give  it  to  Dora,  for  your  wedding-present.  This  one, 
that  has  shared  the  wanderings  of  my  poor  little  lost  lamb 
so  long,  I  shall  keep  for  myself." 

"  Will  you  take  it,  Dora,  and  some  love,  ever  so  much 
love,  along  with  it?"  said  Sunshine,  trying  to  make  her  lit 
tle  offering  in  somewhat  the  form  she  had  heard  from  older 


A    SURPRISE    FOR   MRS.    GINNISS. 

people,  but  finishing  with  a  sudden  clasp  of  her  arms  about 
Dora's  neck,  and  a  shower  of  kisses,  among  which  came 
the  whispered  words,  — 

u  I  love  you  ever  and  ever  so  much  better  than  Cousin 
Tom  does,  Dora.  Be  my  little  wife,  and  never  mind  him  ; 
won't  you  ?  " 


CHAPTER     XL. 

THE    WEDDING-DAY. 

u  MAKE  haste,  Mr.  Sun,  and  get  up  !  Don't  you  know  it 
is  my  birthday,  and,  what  is  better,  it  is  Dora's  wedding- 
day?  So  jump  up,  pretty  Sunny,  and  be  just  as  bright  as 
glory  all  day  long  !  " 

And  the  sun,  hearing  the  appeal,  stood  suddenly  upon  the 
summit  of  the  distant  hills,  shooting  playful  golden  arrows 
into  the  child's  merry  eyes,  and  among  her  floating  hair, 
where  they  clung  glittering  and  glancing  ;  while  to  her  mind 
he  seemed  to  say,  — 

"  Oh,  yes,  little  namesake!  I  know  all  about  it;  and  I 
promise  you  sha'n't  find  me  backward  in  doing  my  share 
towards  the  entertainment.  As  for  a  glare  of  light,  though, 
I  know  a  trick  worth  two  of  that,  as  you  shall  see.  But, 
first,  here  is  my  birthday-kiss.  Don't  you  feel  it  warm 
upon  your  lips?" 

"  O    papa ! "    shouted    Sunshine,  as    the    fancy    whirled 

400 


T11E    WEDDING-DAY.  401 

through  her  busy  little  brain,  "it  seems  just  as  if  the  sun 
were  kissing  me  for  my  birthday.'*'" 

u  If  the  sun  does,  the  father  must;  and  it  ought  to  be 
twice  over,  because  last  year  he  lost  the  chance.  Eight ! 
Uloss  me  !  where  shall  I  put  them  all?  One  on  the  forehead, 
i  wo  on  the  eyes,  one  on  the  tip  of  that  ridiculous  little  nose, 
two  on  the  rose-red  cheeks,  one  in  that  little  hollow  under 
the  chin,  and  the  last  and  best  square  on  the  lips.  Nour, 
then,  my  Sunshine,  run  to  mamma,  who  is  waiting  for 
you." 

The  sun  meantime,  after  a  brief  period  of  meditation, 
took  his  resolve  ;  and,  sending  back  the  brisk  October  day 
that  had  prepared  to  descend  upon  earth,  he  summoned, 
instead,  the  first  day  of  the  Indian  Summer,  and  bade  her 
go  and  help  to  celebrate  the  bridal  of  one  of  his  favorite 
daughters,  as  she  knew  so  well  how  to  do. 

So,  summoning  a  south-west  wind,  still  bearing  in  his  gar 
ments  the  odors  of  the  tropic  bowers  where  he  had  slept, 
the  fair  day  descended  softly  in  his  arms  to  earth,  and, 
seating  herself  upon  the  hills,  wove  a  drapery  of  golden 
mist,  bright  as  love,  and  tender  as  maidenhood.  Then, 
wrapped  in  this  bridal  veil,  she  floated,  still  in  the  arms  of 
the  gentle  wind,  through  the  forests,  touching  their  leaves 


402  THE    WEDDING-DAY. 

with  purer  gold  and  richer  crimson  ;  over  the  harvest-fields, 
whose  shocks  of  lingering  corn  rustled  responsive  as  her 
trailing  garments  swept  past  ;  over  wide,  brown  pas 
tures,  where  the  cattle  nibbled  luxuriously  at  the  sweet 
after-math  ;  over  lakes  and  rivers,  where  the  waters  slep! 
content,  forgetting,  for  the  moment,  their  restless  seaward 
march  ;  over  sheltered  gardens,  where  hollyhock  and  sun 
flower,  petunia  and  pansy,  dahlia  and  phlox,  whispering 
together  of  the  summer  vanished  and  the  frosty  nights  at 
hand,  gave  out  the  mysterious,  melancholy  perfume  of  an 
autumn  day. 

And  from  forest  and  field,  and  pasture  and  garden,  and 
from  the  sleeping  waters,  the  dreamy  day  culled  the  beauty 
and  the  grace,  the  perfume  and  the  sweet  content,  and, 
floating  on  to  where  the  bride  awaited  her  coming,  dropped 
them  all,  a  heavenly  dower,  upon  her  head ;  wrapped  the 
bright  veil  caressingly  about  her  ;  and  so  passed  on,  to  lie 
reclined  upon  the  hills,  dreaming  in  luxurious  beauty,  until 
the  night  should  come,  and  she  should  float  once  more 
heavenward. 

But  the  south-west  wind  lingered  a  while,  kissing  the 
trembling  lips  of  the  bride,  fanning  her  burning  cheek,  and 
dally iug  with  the  fk>ating  tresses  of  her  hair;  then,  whis- 


THE    WEDDING-DAY.  403 

pering  farewell,  he  crept  away  to  hide  in  the  recesses  of  the 
wood,  and  sigh  himself  to  sleep. 

"  Dora,  where  are  you,  love?  Do  you  hide  from  me  to 
day?"  called  a  voice;  and  Dora,  peeping  round  the  "stem 
of  the  old  oak  at  whose  foot  she  sat,  said  shyly,  — 

"  Do  you  want  me,  Tom  ?  " 

u  Want  you,  my  darling?  What  else  on  earth  do  I  want 
but  you  ?  And  how  lovely  you  are  to-day,  Dora !  You 
never  looked  like  this  before." 

u  It  never  was  my  wedding-day  before,"  whispered  Dora  ; 
and,  like  the  summer  day  and  the  west  wind,  we  will  pass 
on,  leaving  these  our  lovers  to  their  own  fond  folly,  which 
yet  is  such  wisdom  as  the  philosophers  and  the  savans  can 
never  give  us  by  theory  or  diagram. 

As  the  fair  day  waned  to  sunset,  they  were  married ;  Mr. 
Brown  saying  the  solemn  words  that  barred  from  his  own 
heart  even  the  unrequited  love  that  had  been  a  dreary 
solace  to  it.  But  Mr.  Brown  was  not  only  a  good  man,  but 
a  strong  man,  and  one  of  an  iron  determination  ;  and  so  it 
was  possible  to  him  to  say  those  words  unfalteringly,  and 
to  look  upon  the  bride  —  lovelier  in  her  misty  robes  of 
white,  and  floating  veil,  than  he  had  ever  seen  her  before  — 
with  unfaltering  eyes  and  unchanging  color.  No  great 


lOi  THE    WEDDING-DAY. 

effort  stops  short  at  the  end  for  which  it  was  exerted  ;  and 
the  chaplain  himself  was  surprised  to  find  how  calm  his 
heart  could  be,  and  how  little  of  pain  or  regret  mingled 
with  his  honest  admiration  and  affection  for  Thomas  Bur- 
roughs's  wife. 

The  carriage  stood  ready  in  the  lane,  and  in  another  hour 
they  were  gone  ;  and  let  us  say  with  Mrs.  Ginniss,  —  ra 
diant  in  her  new  cap  and  gown,  — 

"  The  blissing  of  God  go  with  'em  !  fur  it's  thimsilves  as 
desarves  it." 

To  those  who  remain  behind  when  an  absorbing  interest 
is  suddenly  withdrawn,  all  ordinary  events  seem  to  have 
lost  their  connection  with  themselves,  and  to  be  dull,  dis 
jointed,  and  fatiguing. 

Perhaps  that  was  the  reason  why  Kitty,  as  soon  as  the 
bridal  party  was  out  of  sight,  crept  away  to  her  own  cham 
ber,  and  cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break ;  but  nothing 
except  the  natural  love  of  mischief,  inherent  in  even  the 
sweetest  of  children,  could  have  tempted  'Toinette,  after 
visiting  her,  to  go  straight  to  Mr.  Brown,  —  strolling  in 
the  rambling  old  garden,  —  and  say, — 

"  Now.  Mr.  Brown  3  did  you  say  that  you  despised 
Kitty?" 


THE    WEDDING-DAY.  405 

"  Despise  Kitty  !  Certainly  not,  my  dear.  What  made 
you  think  of  such  a  thing?" 

"  Why,  she  said  so.  She's  up  in  our  room,  crying  just 
as  hard !  And,  when  I  asked  her  what  was  the  matter,  she 
hugged  me  up  tight,  and  said  nobody  cared  for  her,  and  no 
body  would  ever  love  her  same  as  Cousin  Tom  does  Dora. 
And  I  told  her,  yes,  they  would,  and  maybe  you  would  ; 
and  then  she  said,  '  Oh,  no,  no,  no  !  he  despises  me  ! '  and 
then  she  cried  harder  than  ever.  Tell  her  you  don't ;  won'r, 
you,  Mr.  Brown?" 

The  chaplain  looked  much  disturbed,  and  then  very 
thoughtful ;  but,  as  the  child  still  urged  him  with  her 
entreaties,  he  said, — 

"  Yes,  I  will  tell  her  so,  Sunshine,  but  not  just  now. 
And  mind  you  this,  little  girl, — you  must  never,  never  let 
Kitty  know  that  you  told  me  what  she  said.  Will  you 
promise?" 

"  Yes,  I'll  promise.  I  guess  you're  afraid,  if  she  knows, 
she'll  think  you  just  say  so  to  make  her  feel  happy.  Isn't 
that  it?" 

u  Yes  :  that  is  just  it.     So  remember  !  " 

"  I'll  'memberer.  Oh,  there's  Karlo  !  I'm  going  to  look 
for  chestnuts  with  him  to-morrow.  Good-by,  Mr.  Brown  !  " 

u  Good-by,  little  Sunshine  !  " 


406  THE    WEDDING-DAY. 

And,  for  a  good  hour,  Mr.  Brown,  pachig  up  aud  down 
the  garden-walk,  took  counsel  with  his  own  heart,  and,  we 
may  hope,  found  it  docile. 

The  next  day,  he  said  to  Kitty,  — 

'  J  Irave  been  telling  your  brother  that  he  had  better  let 
yv,u  board  at  Yellow  Springs  this  winter,  and  attend  the 
lectures  at  the  college.  Should  you  like  it?" 

"  Oh,  ever  so  much  !  "  exclaimed  Kitty  eagerly.  "  But 
we  were  to  keep  house  together  at  Outpost." 

"  Karl  thinks  it  will  be  as  Avell  to  shut  up  the  house, 
arid  leave  farm-matters  to  Seth  and  Mehitable,  until 
spring,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Burroughs  return.  He  will 
prefer  for  himself  to  spend  the  winter  in  Greenfield,  per 
haps  in  Dr.  Gershom's  family.  If  you  are  at  Antioch 
College,  I  can  perhaps  help  you  with  your  studies.  I 
take  some  private  pupils." 

Mr.  Brown  did  not  make  this  proposition  with  his 
usual  fluency.  Indeed,  he  was  embarrassed  to  a  consid 
erable  extent ;  and  so,  no  doubt,  was  Kitty,  who  answered 
confusedly,  — 

"  I  could  try  ;  but  I  never  shall  be  fit  for  any  thing.  I 
never  —  I  never  shall  know  much  ;  though,  if  you  will  try 
to  teach  me  "  — 


THE    WEDDING-DAY.  407 

"  I  will  try,  Kitty,  with  all  my  heart.  You  have  excel 
lent  abilities,  and  it  is  foolish  to  say  you  '  never  can  be  fit' 
tor  almost  any  positim" 

u  0  Mr.  Brown  !  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  was  such  a  poor 
sort  of  creature,  compared  with  almost  any  one  !  " 

"  Dora,  for  instance?" 

"Yes.     I  never  can  be  Dora:  now,  could  I?" 

"  No,  any  more  than  I  could  be  Mr.  Burroughs.  But 
perhaps  Kitty  Windsor  and  Frank  Brown  may  fill  their 
places  in  this  world,  and  the  next  too,  as  well  as  these 
friends  of  theirs  whom  they  both  admire." 

tk  0  Mr.  Brown  !  will  you  help  me?"  asked  Kitty,  turn 
ing  involuntarily  toward  him,  and  raising  her  handsome 
dark  eyes  and  glowing  face  to  his.  He  took  her  hands, 
looked  kindly  into  her  eyes,  and  said  both  tenderly  and 
solemnly,  — 

"  Yes,  Kitty,  God  helping  me,  I  will  be  to  you  all  that  a 
thoughtful  brother  could  be  to  his  only  sister  ;  and.  what  you 
may  be  to  me  in  the  dim  future,  that  future  only  knows." 

And  Kitty's  eyes  drooped  happily  beneath  that  earnest 
gaze,  and  upon  her  cheeks  glowed  the  dawn  of  a  hope  as 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

KARL   TO   DORA. 

GREENFIELD  IOWA,  March  15 
MY  DEAR  COUSIN,  — 

YOURS  of  the  10th  duly  received,  and  as  welcome  as  your 
letters  always  are.  So  you  have  seen  the  kingdoms  of  the 
world  aud  the  glory  thereof,  and  find  that  all  is  vanity,  as 
saitb  the  Preacher.  Do  not  imagine  that  I  am  studying  di 
vinity  instead  of  medicine  ;  but  to-day  is  Sunday,  and  I  have 
been  twice  to  meeting,  and  taken  tea  with  the  minister 
besides. 

But  to  return  to  our  mutton.  Nothing  could  be  more  de 
lightful,  or,  on  the  whole,  more  probable  to  me,  than  your 
decision  to  return  to  Outpost,  instead  of  settling  in  Boston 
or  New  York.  I  can  hardly  fancy  my  cousin  Dora  changed 
into  a  fine  lady,  and  fretting  herself  thin  over  the  color  of  a 
ribbon,  or  the  trail  of  a  skirt ;  and  I  am  not  surprised  that 
she  finds  what  is  called  u  society"  puzzling  and  wearisome. 
Your  life,  Dora,  began  upon  too  wide  a  plan  to  bear  nar 
rowing  down  into  conventional  limits  now ;  and  I  feel 

408 


KARL   TO   DORA.  409 

through  my  own  heart  the  thrill  with  which  you  wrote  the 
words,  — 

"  I  long  for  the  opportunity  of  action  and  usefulness  ; 
I  long  for  the  freedom  of  the  prairie,  and  the  dignity  of  la 
bor  ;  I  long  to  resume  my  old  life,  and  to  see  my  husband 
begin  his  new  one." 

But,  to  be  quite  frank,  I  was  a  little  surprised  that  Mr. 
Burroughs  should  enter  so  heartily  into  your  plan  of  resum 
ing  the  farm.  To  be  sure,  I  suppose  the  land-agency,  and 
the  practice  of  his  profession,  will  occupy  most  of  his  time  ; 
and  his  principal  concern  with  the  estate  will  be  to  admire 
your  able  management  of  it.  You  and  he,  my  dear  Dora, 
seem  to  form  not  only  a  mutual-admiration,  but  a  mutual- 
encouragement  and  mutual-assistance  society ;  and  I  wish 
my  partnership  with  Dr.  Gershom  was  half  as  satisfactory 
an  arrangement. 

Yesterday,  after  receiving  your  letter,  I  rode  directly  to 
Outpost,  and  communicated  your  wishes  to  Seth  and  Mehita- 
ble.  The  former  threw  the  chip  he  was  whittling  into  the 
fire,  and  said,  — 

u  Miss  Burroughs  coming  back?  Waal,  then,  I'll  stop  ; 
but  I  own,  doctor,  I  wouldn't  ha'  done  it  ef  she  hadn't.  It'. 
took  all  the  heart  out  o'  the  place,  her  bein'  gone  so." 

And  Mehitable  and  he  joined  in  a  chorus  of  praises  and 


410  KARL    TO    DORA. 

reminiscences,  which,  pleasant  though  I  found  it,  I  will  not 
put  you  to  the  blush  by  repeating.  Both,  however,  prom 
ised  faithfully  that  the  house  and  farm  should  be  ready  for 
you  by  the  middle  of  April ;  and  Seth  says  he  can  take  hold 
"  right  smart "  at  helping  put  up  the  new  house,  as  he  was 
"  raised  a  carpenter,"  in  part  at  least. 

You  ask  about  me,  my  dear  cousin  ;  but  what  have  I  to 
tell?  I  work  hard  at  my  profession,  and  take  nearly  all 
the  night-practice  off  Dr.  Gershom's  hands  ;  so  I  have  very 
little  leisure  for  any  tiling  besides  :  and  you  say  to  be  useful 
is  to  be  happy  ;  so  I  suppose  I  am  happy ;  but,  if  I  may  be 
allowed  the  suggestion,  it  is  rather  a  negative  kind  of  bliss, 
and  will  be  decidedly  augmented  when  Outpost  is  once 
again  open  to  me  as  a  second  home  (I  assure  you  I  shall  be 
a  frequent  visitor),  arid  when  Burroughs  comes  to  occupy 
an  office  beside  my  own. 

As  for  the  rumor  of  my  engagement  to  Sarah  Gershom,  it 
is  quite  unfounded.  I  am  not  thinking  of  marrying  at  present. 

A  letter  from  Kitty,  received  a  few  days  since,  brings 
very  satisfactory  accounts  of  her  progress  in  learning  and 
in  life.  She  is  as  happy  as  possible  in  her  engagement  to 
Frank  Brown,  and  improves,  under  his  tuition,  beyond  my 
wildest  hopes.  She  has  a  strong  nature  and  a  deep  heai-t. 
has  Kitty  ;  and  I  believe  Brown  understands  and  can  guide 


KARL    TO    DORA.  411 

them  both.  Kitty  tells  me,  also,  that  Theodore  Giimiss  is 
taking  high  honors  in  his  class,  and  is  one  of  the  most  prom 
ising  fellows  at  Antioch  College.  He  will  yet  become  a 
man  of  mark,  and  Mrs.  Legrange  may  well  J^e  proud  of 
her  protege.  Give  her  my  regards,  please  ;  and  a  thousand 
kisses  to  Dolce,  whom  I  thank  most  humbly  for  her  kind 
message  to  her  poor  old  Karlo.  I  hope  to  see  her  again  in 
my  little  vacation  next  summer.  Remember  me,  too,  most' 
kindly  to  your  husband,  upon  whose  coming  to  Greenfield  I 
am  depending  a  good  deal,  as  I  do  not  suffer,  like  you,  from 
too  much  society ;  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  associate  with  one 
man  who  does  not  chew  tobacco,  or  sit  in  the  house  with 
his  hat  on. 

And  now,  dear  Dora,  good-night,  and  good-by  for  a  little 

while. 

Always  your  affectionate  cousin, 

KAFL. 


THE      END. 


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